All the King's Men (The Raising Hell Chronicles: Book One)
by Seven-Shades-of-A
Summary: You get what you fight for and people can only hurt you if you let them. These are the lessons that Fisk taught Maya. They're her constants in the mercurial world of organized crime, which she became a part of with her father's death. When a man in a mask begins tearing her world apart, it'll take more than Fisk's men to stop him. Even if she's just an Echo. (A Maya Lopez Story)
1. Epigraph

"I define a 'good person' as somebody who is fully conscious of their own limitations. They know their strengths, but they also know their 'shadow' - they know their weaknesses. In other words, they understand that there is no good without bad."

-John Bradshaw


	2. Chapter One

_**I've had this floating around on my phone for ages and decided to share it with you. I should really finish one of my other works but, apparently, I have no self control when it comes to my writing.**_

 _ **This story is loosely based on Maya Lopez, also known as Echo and the first to wear the Ronin armor, from the Parts of a Hole arc. I've taken a few creative liberties to make it a bit more realistic and to make it fit better with the show's canon.**_

 _ **If I've made any mistakes regarding deaf culture or Native American culture, please let me know. My knowledge only extends as far as the Internet allows me.**_

 _ **Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not a thing. No copyright infringement intended.**_

* * *

Step forward, left, right, high kick, turn, step back.

Two short taps on the ground. _Not fast enough_ , they say.

Step forward, left, right, high kick, turn, step back.

One long tap on the ground. _Less jerky motions._

Step forward, left, right, high kick, turn, step back.

No more taps.

Maya drops her readied stance, the sword in her hand falling uselessly to her side. She pushes the few stray strands of dark hair away from her face and allows herself a slow breath. In a single smooth movement, one which she has done countless times before, she slides the blade into the sheath lying between her shoulder blades and turns to face the man who has been watching her the entire time. He is the one who taps his foot on the floor as she trains, the one who gave her opportunities no one else had, the one who had seen what she was capable of and helped her grow further.

He nods approvingly at her, but says nothing. It's not often that he does speak during her training. And he never smiles inside these walls. She vaguely remembers her father, the man who died when she was young and left her in the hands of the man who watches her, the man others refuse to call by name. Her father was almost always smiling. Except on the day he died. It's very rare for Fisk to smile, though he does so when he is proud of her. She remembers her first recital and how he had given her the small smile she has come to associate with him.

She turns away from him, facing one of the many mirrors that line the walls. They are there for her to watch herself, to make sure she is mimicking her task perfectly, though most people don't understand how the mirrors work to help Maya. Most people don't understand much of what Maya does or how she does it, regardless. She almost revels in their amazement. She has something they don't have, just as they have something she doesn't.

As she slowly takes off the body armor she wears and folds the pieces away into their trunk, she notices a man walk up to join Fisk. She's seen him around ever since she came back from studying abroad and has watched him in curiosity. After all, not many get so close to her adoptive father. He is younger than most of the people who associate with Fisk, though he carries himself haughtily as if he sees himself above the others, but capable enough.

Dark hair immaculately combed, a well-tailored suit, black horn-rimmed glasses, a nose that looks as though it's been broken a few times. But it's always his eyes that catch her interest. Their color reminds her of the old, crumpled dollar bills you find in your pocket after you've washed your jeans, but they are empty of all emotion most of the time. The mask of composure he wears is one of the best she's ever seen. She has seen people say his name – Wesley, apparently – but has yet to determine whether it's his first or last name.

She watches them in the mirror, reading their lips as they speak. It's easier to do so with Wesley than it is with Fisk. Though Fisk obviously enunciates his words carefully, he also does so slowly and just barely opens his mouth to speak, making it more difficult for her to piece together what he is saying. On the other hand, Wesley forms his words carefully and deliberately. She imagines his pronunciation is flawless. All thanks to expensive charter schools, she would guess.

"All assets have been procured and those involved have been informed that you are now overseeing all of their debts," Wesley says.

Fisk nods, "Thank you, Wesley."

"Madame Gao has, as expected, requested to speak with you in regards to the distribution of her product, despite having been assured that the Russians would be fully capable of handling it."

"Of course. Was she...satisfied with the location I proposed?"

This time, Wesley nods, "Yes. I could always say you are indisposed. None of the others have the privilege of speaking to you face to face."

"No. Madame Gao deserves our utmost respects."

"Understood," Wesley says, turning away to look towards Maya. "If I may, sir, why do you spend so much time with _her_?" – the word comes out with a curl of his lips, and Maya nearly misses it – "She offers no benefits to your endeavor and, if anything, she wastes your time."

Fisk gives him a hard look, "Maya is never a waste of time. She is...like a daughter to me, an indispensable ally, and an advantage to have should we need her at any time. You've seen some of her progress."

"Yes, and I've heard what she can do from the others," Wesley says, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "The few that do know her seem to call her 'the Echo', and I suppose I know why. She mimics what others do, but she's exactly that: a pale comparison to the original and never exactly right."

Anger boils in Maya's veins at his words. He doesn't know her. He doesn't know that everyone had once thought she was slow and that she had to prove them wrong. He doesn't know she had to scratch, and claw, and fight to be as good as she is now. He doesn't know how much more effort she has to put in than everyone else to keep the world from leaving her behind. In that moment, she resents his ignorance.

Pulling a small dagger, a little steel number about the length of her index finger and only twice as wide, from her trunk, she gets to her feet. She remembers the man she had dated a month and a half ago, specifically his accuracy. Her body goes through the motions as her mind remembers exactly how Lester moved. She lets the dagger fly, watching it carefully in order to measure how well she copied Lester's actions. It shoots through the air effortlessly, grazing Wesley's nose just enough to get a reaction from him, and embeds itself in the wall across from her.

Wesley's hand flies up to his nose, blood coming away on his fingertips when he draws them back. It is not a deep cut, barely the size of a needle prick, but it bleeds just enough for her to relish the action. There is a look of shock and indignation and disbelief on his face when he turns to her. Fisk barely smirks, the closest thing she has seen to a smile in this room, as though proud of her. She is satisfied, both with how well she was able to recreate Lester's accuracy and how she has managed to get the better of Wesley. A pointed look is all she gives him as she walks past him and out the door, noting that he looks a little taken aback as though surprised she had heard him. Maybe he had been whispering – she wouldn't know.

Maya's world is silent. It has been as long as she can remember.

She remembers Fisk's first personal assistant, the one he had before he got into his current business endeavors – whatever they may be, as he won't tell her what all they entail. His name had been Oswald Silkworth. He had known about Maya being deaf, had gone through the trouble of learning sign language even though he didn't have to, and had treated her like more of a person than anyone ever had, with the exception of Fisk and her father. But he had disappeared one day and it was only the day after when she learned Fisk had fired him for 'carelessness' in regards to what they only ever call 'the incident'. It wasn't long after that she was put into self defense classes.

The day Maya had come back to find that Wesley had filled Silkworth's position had been a sour one. He had come in with his curt professionalism, his duplicitous smiles, and his clever charm that thinly hid how much he looked down his nose at everyone else. She hadn't liked him on principle alone. He reminded her too much of the teachers who had spoken down to her as a child, as though she couldn't understand them unless they spoke far too slowly. Little had they known that she actually couldn't read their lips when they did so, and so had appeared even slower than they had believed her to be.

Her room in Fisk's apartment was relatively spacious, custom built to accommodate her disability. There was a light above the doorway that was hooked to a doorbell outside her door, as Fisk wanted to give her privacy. She's been looking for a decent apartment to call her own, a surprisingly difficult task since the apparent alien attack on New York while she was away. Part of her knows that Fisk likes to have her there. So she stays for the time being.

Her eyes wander over the familiar room, her mind blank in her weariness. A desk by the window is covered in sheet music for her piano in the sitting room. There is a television beside it, several videos of martial artists, classical pianists, Olympic-level gymnasts, and famous dancers filled the shelves beneath it. A queen-sized bed sits directly across from the door.

Pulling the hairband out of her hair, Maya kicks the door closed behind her and begins to strip off the tank top and yoga pants she's wearing. Her bathroom is connected to her room, the door to it in the far wall of her walk-in closet. Though Fisk is not the most expressive of adoptive parents, he has always made sure she has everything she could ever need. She turns on the cold water in the shower, not wanting to take a hot shower after training.

She steps into the spray, letting the water run over her skin and wash away her tension. She closes her eyes and breathes in the lemon scent of her soap that fills the bathroom. Sound may be unattainable for her, which does have its downsides from time to time, but she relishes her other senses. She turns off the water and reaches for her towel. The amount of clothing she has is a bit ridiculous, even by her standards. Rows of brand name shirts, blouses, jeans, pants, skirts, and dresses hang neatly from their coat hangers. She doesn't bother to spend time picking out something clean to wear anymore. It's always a roulette game of whatever she happens to pull out of her closet.

Her hair is still damp as she steps out of her bedroom and walks towards her piano. It had been a Christmas present from Fisk when she was ten, though it was sort of a present for himself, as he always listens to her play when he can. The floor resonates with footsteps approaching her, too light and sauntering to be Fisk's, and she glances over her shoulder to see Wesley. The bleeding from his cut has stopped and she frowns at the sight.

Turning away from him, she continues walking towards her piano. She almost reaches it when his hand suddenly clasps her arm tightly. Maya does not like to be touched, it brings back the discomfort and memories of the incident that she constantly pushes to the back of her mind, and she likes Wesley touching her even less. Within seconds, she's got his wrist in her grip and is twisting his arm around his back to push him against the nearest wall. She can read his lips from the angle at which his face is pressed against the wall. His calm, composed demeanor is gone.

"Alright," he says, his pupils blown wide. "What I did was uncalled for. Would you please let go of me?"

She lets his arm go immediately, turning and tromping back towards her piano. He pulls himself away from the wall as she takes seat at the bench. It's obvious that he's trying to find the most diplomatic way to say something without angering either her or Fisk, though he might find difficulty in doing so as his very demeanor, his arrogance clear in his very body language, bothers her. She glances up once more when she realizes he is trying to speak to her.

"-appreciate it if you wouldn't ignore me."

She raises her eyebrows at him. Does he not know she is deaf? It had always seemed to her that he simply didn't care. Rolling her eyes, she begins to sign at him, regardless of the fact that she doubts he'll know what she's trying to say.

 _I can't ignore you if I can't actually hear you to begin with._

The disapproving expression falls from his face, his features impassive except for the dawning realization in his money-colored eyes. He opens and shuts his mouth as though searching for words he can't quite reach.

"You're deaf," he says.

 _Eloquent_ , she thinks with a smirk.

She gives him her best how-did-you-know expression and claps at him in the most mocking manner she can imitate. He looks almost offended at her actions and takes a few steps closer.

"I wasn't aware of your disability."

Maya's jaw clenches and it takes all of her self-control not to storm back to her bedroom in fury. She hates when people say 'disabled' or 'deaf' in the way that Wesley says it, as though they're almost toxic words. But walking off would let him win, let him know he got to her, and she refuses to do so. Especially not to the smug bastard before her. She plays a few chords on the piano that she knows don't go together in the hopes that he might leave.

Still, Wesley continues, "I assume you read lips. If I had known, I would have-"

She doesn't give him time to finish, instead focusing on playing her piano. Pressing the keys down harder than she would under normal circumstances, she clunks out a simple version of Ray Charles' _Hit the Road, Jack_ , something she had picked up from watching one of her videos. Wesley's jaw snaps shut and his lips press into a thin line. It doesn't take long for him to walk briskly out of the apartment.

Maya keeps playing long after he's gone, with the hopes that the music carries that far, just to prove her point.


	3. Chapter Two

**_And Wesley returns because a) I rather like that smug little bastard and b) there's no way he and Maya could both play such integral roles in Fisk's life and not come to some sort of understanding. Slow-going, though, as they both have their pride. ;-)_**

 ** _To the lovely June: the appalling lack of Maya fanfic is exactly why I'm writing this. I hope it lives up to your expectations._**

* * *

The next time she sees him is after one of her performances. He is standing right where Fisk usually is, but he does not seem quite so disdainful of his surroundings this time. Though his face is in its usual composed mask, it is almost as though there is thinly veiled awe in his money-colored eyes. It is not an uncommon expression in the faces of her audience, she knows, but it is the last sentiment she would have ever thought to be present on his face.

She bows to the audience before walking offstage. This performance had been inspired by Liberace, a personal favorite pianist of hers, and she was a bit let down to not have been able to throw together a decent costume similar to the master musician's. She had always loved his outfits when she had been little. Instead, she had settled for a dapper black suit with shoulders that were perhaps a bit too square for the recent fashion and enough glitter in the fabric to catch a bird's eye. Paired with her blue-grey eyeshadow and silver lipstick, she rather thinks she caught his extravagant style.

Wesley is waiting for her backstage when she's walking out after changing into her favorite pair of distressed jeans and an old graphic tee-shirt with the _Tootsie Pop_ owl on it. She suppresses a smirk when he reads the printed words that sit just above her breasts in the black fabric, which read 'Wanna Lick?' in bright orange letters, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. He also has the tendency to purse his lips if he finds something particularly crude or disgusting, but he doesn't do that now. She raises her eyebrows at him, a silent question which she knows he understands, and he does something she doesn't expect.

He begins signing to her in sloppy SEE, but she makes out what he is trying to say by reading his lips, "My employer is in an important meeting with a business partner. He sends his deepest regrets for not being able to make it."

 _And you're here to babysit_ , she signs back.

He shakes his head, "I'm here to accompany you back to the apartment."

 _On his orders, no doubt_.

"The car is waiting outside," he says, ignoring the snide expression and the closed-off posture accompanying her signing.

She doesn't sign anything in reply, instead choosing to wave for him to lead the way. He tries to keep pace with her rather than walk in front of her, she realizes, and takes shorter strides when she slows down to see if that's what he's doing. His gaze burns into her even though she tries to ignore him and she can't help but read what he is saying to her out the corner of her eye.

"I feel as though we got off on the wrong foot," he says, signing improperly as he does. "There were a few misunderstandings and I want to take a chance to start things over between us. As your adoptive father's assistant, I would prefer it if we could share some sort of camaraderie."

She fights a bewildered expression as they walk out onto the street. Was there anyone who even spoke like that anymore? She wonders idly, with a ghost of a smile playing across her lips, if it is a compulsion for Wesley to speak that way. He certainly comes across as the type of man who seems like he might have OCD but is actually just an anal retentive pain in the ass.

 _Is that an apology, Wesley? It's difficult to tell with the way you're dressing it up_. _Honestly, I haven't seen a sentence with that much ham in it since last year's Thanksgiving._

The next thing he does truly make her frown in confusion. His lips tug up at the corners, his eyes nearly closing as he looks down at the floor. If she didn't know any better, Maya thinks, she might have mistaken the gesture for a smile. It would be a sign of the apocalypse if he's laughing.

"You're very candid for a woman who doesn't speak," he replied, opening the door to Fisk's car for her. "But, yes, I am trying to apologize."

 _How diplomatic of you_ , she signs, throwing him an unimpressed expression before sliding onto the seats.

He slides in next to her, though he keeps a good distance between them, and shuts the door behind him. As he leans forward to tell the chauffer to take them home, she looks at the driver through the rearview mirror and taps the right corner of her lips. She's known Will long enough that he knows what she wants with the simple gesture. The silent request goes unnoticed by Wesley, as he is leaning over to pull an oddly shaped box out from under the seat.

"I thought I might get something to make up for the mistake," he says, not bothering to sign with his hands full. "My employer tells me you have a passion for learning new things, particularly new songs."

She throws him a look that obviously shows she is questioning his sanity as he flips open the latches and turns the case her way. Inside is a violin, a beautiful cherry wood instrument with almost Baroque-style carvings along its neck. It is clear that the violin is very expensive. He taps the case to get her attention, smugness in his pale eyes despite his unreadable expression, and he begins to speak again.

"There are a few videos, as well," he states. "They range in difficulty so you can learn at any pace you want."

She pushes the case back towards him with a shake of her head and signs to him again, _What do you take me for?_

He looks surprised then, taking in her almost outraged incredulity. She continues signing even as he opens his mouth to speak.

 _Do you think you can just buy expensive gifts and win me over so easily? Do you really think you can bribe me the way you would Wilson's associates? I'm not some materialistic mob boss or drug lord. If you want my respect, you're going to have to earn it the way everyone else would._

Wesley is visibly taken aback by her words, his lips parting in the first sign of shock that she's seen painted on his face – like a stripe of color across a blank canvas. She doesn't think she's ever seen him look so open as he does in that moment. The mask of calm and collected professionalism, which she knows all too well from him, has somehow disintegrated as she signs to him. She supposes it is because he didn't know she was aware of Fisk's less-than-socially-acceptable actions, that he protects her from the shadowy world around them. But she has never needed anyone's protection. She protects herself, and does so more easily from the shadows than the light.

"I apologize," he stuttered, making it more difficult for her to make out what he was saying. "My intention was never to-"

 _Bullshit_ , she signs as they pull up to the curb of her favorite diner. _You screwed up with the adopted daughter of your employer and thought you could patch everything up if you brought her something shiny. Do you take me for an idiot? If you're going to try to save your ass, at least try to do with a bit more subtlety._

Without further ado, she opens the door on her side and walks out of the car. She doesn't understand why Fisk finds Wesley to be a man worth being friends with. Then again, he is very accommodating and doesn't seem to flinch at the more violent tendencies her adoptive father displays. She's seen him when his anger gets the best of him, always when she's wearing her body armor and her mask, as he doesn't want his associates to know how much of a role she plays in his work. Even she has been taken aback on occasion.

The employees at the diner are always kind to her, as she's been going there after her performances since she was before she was eighteen. Fisk is almost always there with her and they talk for a good hour or two as they enjoy the easy atmosphere away from the rest of the world, but it seems less comforting without him there. But she understands that sometimes he has to take matters into his own hands if he is to ever make any progress on rebuilding Hell's Kitchen.

Angie is her waitress for the morning, a young dark-haired girl who is studying to be an engineer and has been working at the diner for the past three months, and knows enough ASL and SEE to understand which coffee Maya wants. When she leaves to put in the order, Maya catches sight of Wesley walking in through the glass door. His eyes scan over the little diner disdainfully but he offers a saccharine smile to the hostess when he points to her table. He slips into the booth across from her wordlessly, his money-colored gaze on her the whole time. She gives a disbelieving huff and returns to her menu. It's only when she feels him rapping his knuckles lightly against the table.

"You're right," he says, signing once more.

She blinks at him in confusion and, had she not read his lips and watched his hands move, she might have thought she made a mistake.

 _Swing that by me again_ , she signs.

"You were right. I've spent too much time around those whose loyalties can be bought and I held you to the same standard. I'm sorry."

She gives him a brief smile, _And that was all I wanted to see._

It's his turn to seem disbelieving, "That's all you wanted?"

 _If you had been willing to unbend that pride of yours, you might have figured that out earlier. You don't strike me as an idiot, Wesley, just too arrogant to see straight from time to time._

He gives her an odd look, "I'm not sure whether you're complimenting or criticizing me."

 _It was an observation_ , she responds. _Take it however you want_.

Angie returns then with Maya's coffee, smiling at her before asking Wesley if he wants anything. He orders some type of coffee that she's not sure how to pronounce and the waitress disappears once more. Once again, his eyes rove over his surroundings with a pronounced distaste that she's only ever seen on his face. That particular level of distain had been something she previously thought was only present in movies. He proves her wrong continuously. She taps the table, in a similar manner as he had done five minutes before, and begins signing the second she has his attention.

 _Is there something wrong?_

"Nothing at all," he replied.

Maya has to give it to him: Wesley is a decent actor. But she knows better than to simply take his, or anyone's, words at face value. She gives him a skeptical expression, making it obvious that she doesn't believe him, and the corners of his lips twitch in what she knows is the smile he gets when something surprises him.

"You don't miss a thing, do you?"

She offers him a tight smile, a shallow attempt to be friendly to Fisk's long-time friend. Wesley may not be her favorite person, but she loves Fisk and doesn't want to upset him, so she decides being civilized towards his so-called Arranger is worth it. The gesture still doesn't come across as she intends but he has the good grace to not mention it.

"You have very…interesting tastes for the adopted daughter of a multi-millionaire," he remarks.

 _You mean 'cheap tastes'_ , she signs, looking unamused. _Do me a favor. Look around this room, really look at it, and tell me what you see._

"Why?"

 _Humor me._

He raises his eyebrows at her, but complies with what she asked of him. She watches him, sipping from her coffee, as his green eyes roam over the place once more. This time, however, she can tell he is actually paying closer attention to their surroundings. He shrugs when he looks back to her, looking as though he hasn't changed his mind.

"I see an old building that is in desperate need of renovating," he tells her. "Laminate that has stains in it that are older than I am and wallpaper that's peeling off the walls, tables that wobble if you place your arm on a certain spot and seats that were probably made in the late fifties. I don't see anything redeeming in this place."

She smirks at his words, her face turning downward as she gives a silent laugh. When she looks back up at him, his expression has changed, disdain replaced by thinly-veiled confusion. It is obvious that he has no idea what she truly means to get out of their conversation.

 _Just what I thought_ , she tells him. _You only see the surface of everything. It must be such an unfulfilling world you live in, so lacking in depth. What a waste._

"Then why don't you tell me what you see?"

It's a challenge. She knows that much from the teasing edge in his eyes, and the sudden change in his demeanor surprises her. It had never occurred to her that he might have this kind of side hidden away. She knows his penchant for sardonic and cynical side comments, some of which even border on the derisive, but she had thought humor and playfulness was beneath him. A smile tugs at her full lips as she mentally accepts the test.

 _I see so much more than you do,_ she signs. _Take this building, for instance. This place was someone's dream once upon a time. Every stain in the laminate tells a story of someone who's passed through here at least once, dozens of stories of lives in a single black smudge. They keep better records than human memory. Beneath the peeling wallpaper is another faded wallpaper, true, but it is also a choice made by someone who loved this diner, and every wobbly table speaks of the passion behind a speaker as he slammed his fist on it while speaking or the amusement of someone who smacked it while laughing. These old seats are a keepsake from a bygone era and a way to remember the past. You see, Wesley, where you see a tacky little restaurant in need of remodeling, I see stories and character and something worth saving. That's why I like to come here._

Wesley is silent as she finishes, his eyes thoughtful as he reads her expression. There is an emotion in them which she can't name but it is gone the next minute as he gives a calculated smile.

"You sound like your father," he says, though she doesn't entirely think of Fisk as her true father. "Like a visionary and a true artist."

 _You say that like they're two different things_.

"You have an interesting way of looking at the world."

She gives him a questioning, if slightly smug, look, _Is that a compliment, Wesley?_

"Just an observation," he teases. "Take it any way you want."

And she suddenly can't help the amused smirk that plays across her lips.


	4. Chapter Three

_**Hello, everyone! So, this is probably the biggest change from the comics that I've made, as it defines Maya and her relationships in an entirely new light, but I felt like it fit the show's narrative. After all, Maya's not a fool. She would notice something about Fisk and his work doesn't add up. And there's no way Fisk wouldn't utilize a person of her skill set. So rating change, but only for canon-typical violence (and maybe a bit of swearing in the future).**_

 _ **Thanks again to all of you lovely readers (and to June, for your amazing feedback). I hope you all enjoy.**_

* * *

Maya is not sure what she thinks of the nights Fisk comes to her with assignments. Of course, she knows that her adoptive father often has to deal with unsavory people, but she trusts in his fervid hope to rebuild Hell's Kitchen into something better. So when he comes to her at dusk, standing in the doorway as she practices mimicking an Olympic level gymnast, she knows exactly what he wants her to do. It is not a common occurrence, but she knows the look on his face all too well.

"Who am I guarding this time?" she asks him, dusting off the chalk on her hands as she hops off the balance beam.

Fisk is one of the few people she speaks aloud to. From what she has gathered from others, she knows her speech is not as flawless as the people around her. When she had asked Silkworth to tell her honestly what she sounded like, back when he had still worked for Fisk, and he had admitted that her pronunciation was slurred on certain words as though they didn't belong on her tongue. Fisk doesn't seem to mind that she almost exclusively speaks aloud to him, though she knows he disapproves of her insecurity.

He hands her a file, though he waits until she looks up at him to speak, "No one. I need you to…take care of someone."

"I thought we agreed that I wasn't going to kill anymore, that my only contact with your…business would be to provide protection when necessary."

"You know I would not ask it of you if there was any alternative."

"What about Nobu's people?" she asks. "I thought that was why you're collaborating with them in the first place. For moments like this."

"Under normal circumstances, I would turn to them. But I…need someone with…more subtlety than Nobu."

She sighs in defeat, but opens the file in her hands. There is very little inside: a handful of pictures, a single sheet of paper with information printed neatly on it, and a few copies of police reports. Reading through them, Maya is shocked at what she is able to determine. She looks up at Fisk in disbelief.

"A police officer?"

"He owed Rigoletto a…substantial amount. And has been working for me, to pay off his debts," Fisk explains. "He was…apprehended…in his attempt to…clean up a particular mess."

"The secretary from the Union Allied mess," Maya guesses aloud. "Paige something…?"

"Karen Page," Fisk corrects her, though he doesn't look as though he cares one way or the other.

"Would you like me to 'take care' of her, too?"

"No. Just Farnum."

She glances down at the photos once more, a thought troubling her, and she meets Fisk's dark brown eyes, "Did something happen to Rance?"

"Rance was…tied up," he tells her, causing her to stare at him skeptically. "We won't be using his services anymore."

She contemplates saying something to that, something snarky that would make her dissatisfaction with this task clear, but instead says, "Anything in particular that you want for Farnum? Hit and run? Mugging gone wrong?"

"Suicide."

She nods in understanding, taking one of the photographs and the typed paper before shutting the folder. Fisk takes it from her the second she offers it, watching silently as she analyzes the photograph then looks to the address printed beneath the officer's name, and takes those from her, too, when it is clear that she's done with them.

"I should be back before dawn," she tells him.

"Thank you, Maya."

She smiles, but the gesture doesn't reach her eyes, "Anything within reason for you, Wilson. You know that."

He returns the smile, though his is much smaller than her own, at the use of his name. When she had been young, he had hated how she refused to call him anything but 'Mr. Fisk'. It had taken a month's worth of not-so-subtle hinting when she was ten for him to finally persuade her to call him by his first name.

She gives him a peck on the cheek as she walks out, "Good night."

She doesn't feel his footsteps following her as passes through the doorway, but she doesn't really expect to. It isn't often that he sends her out for anything other than the mundane errands or brief meetings with Madame Gao, as he doesn't like to put her in the line of fire, so he doesn't like to watch her go. But he knows she is fully capable of taking care of herself. He made certain of that himself, after all.

She goes to her room, walking straight to her closet and kneeling down to pull out the little wooden trunk out from beneath her shoe rack. The metal of the latch is cool against her fingers as she flips it up and opens the trunk. Inside, folded in neat squares of various sizes, is her body armor, a _katana_ , a _wakizashi_ and a set of _nunchaku._ The entire chest had been a gift from Nobu and his men, as a show of good faith when they had joined Fisk.

Nobu had seen her a few times before, as the Hand had quite a few techniques for her to learn, back when she wore military-grade clothing and a simple mask over her mouth and nose. After watching her train, he had thought the gift might prove useful. Fisk had sent it immediately to a man in his employ, who had lined each piece with a lightweight armor that gave the black outfit golden accents in places. She runs her fingertips over the soft, durable material before standing up and stripping down.

Pulling on the armor has become a task that is both simple and automatic, much like reflexes or the fighting techniques she learns from watching the videos. She traces the length of the _katana_ 's _saya_ but decides the wound created by a sword would be a bit conspicuous. She also leaves the _nunchaku_ and the _wakizashi_ behind. The helmet, a visor-like piece shaped into a nondescript male face so that she still has a decent visual range, is the last piece she fits into place.

From where she is standing, Maya can see her reflection in the mirror past the bathroom's open door. There is a binder beneath top half of her armor, pulling her chest in and successfully hiding her gender, and there is the slightest padding along the arms, shoulders, chest, and legs to give the sense of a more masculine body. Fisk had stressed the importance hiding her identity when she had first asked him about it. She doesn't mind one way or the other, but had simply been curious.

She doesn't leave the apartment through the door. Such an act would be careless and Maya has been taught better. She takes Fisk's private elevator to the little garden he owns on the roof, stepping out onto the grass without fear of cameras, and walks over to the edge of the building. The view is one of her favorite aspects of the apartment building and she takes a moment to admire the cityscape of Hell's Kitchen brought to life by the lights against the night sky. Not for the first time, she contemplates the possibility of learning how to paint just to recreate this view in the swirling colors of an oil on canvas.

Without another second spared to the idle thoughts, Maya vaults over the edge in the direction of the closest building. The jump is something she picked up from the previous year's Olympics and, though she has to alter it slightly to accommodate for her physical restrictions, she lands in a graceful roll on the next building's roof. Soon she is racing over the rooftops, her footsteps barely reverberating through the concrete below her. Every jump feels like she is taking flight and she relishes the sensations as she always does on her few missions.

Farnum's address is burned into the back of her eyelids as she races through the night. She doesn't particularly like the idea of killing, as she sees herself as a fairly compassionate person. People she sees as heroes on the streets – teachers, firefighters, and the handful of good cops in the world – are the few who have her utmost respect. But this cop is crooked, according to the papers Fisk had given her, and so it isn't too much of a hardship to tie up the loose end he presents.

She stops only once, squinting down over the edge of one of the shorter buildings at the street. It doesn't matter if she can't read the street sign dozens of feet below her. She has memorized Hell's Kitchen, which isn't all too difficult to do given it is built on a grid, by the buildings and stores alone. Judging from the buildings around her, she's close. She's in the Russians' territory, though, a part of the city she is more familiar with regardless of how she may or may not always be welcome. She is safe in Fisk's part of the city, and even Nobu and Madame Gao know to leave her to her own devices when she crosses into their territories. But Vladimir has always been fickle, unpredictable and ever-moving in his opinion of her. Quite like a flame in the wind, she thinks. She is never certain if Anatoly can reign in his little brother entirely.

Although, that isn't to say she couldn't handle Vladimir herself if push came to shove.

A white van on the street catches her attention, particularly in the way it swerves to a stop before another car. She watches as a couple men rush out of the vehicle, dragging someone out of the car behind them, beating the man on the pavement. Her jaw clenches at the sight, but she does nothing. Though she loathes what the Russians do, she knows they are essential to Fisk's needs for the time being, and so mostly tries not to think about it. She has agreed to stay out of their business until they are no longer of use.

She turns away, leaping over the alleys below and continuing on her way. Farnum's apartment is a rough little brownstone with a deli next to it. It's a modest home, she thinks as she makes her way down the fire escape, and has a distinct romanticism to it. Though the neighborhood is terrible, she rather likes the building itself. She likes it even more when she reaches his window.

Even from the outside, she can tell it feels cozy and welcoming. The inside is furnished with warm colored décor and several family photos line the walls. She almost pities him, as he has a nice little home to come back to at the end of the day, but she also thinks him a fool for not leaving the second he had the chance. If it had been her on the wrong side of Fisk, she would have packed up and left the state. Possibly even the country.

The rugs that cover the laminate flooring soften her landing as she slinks in, and no doubt muffles the sound. It is fairly dark inside, which would normally worry her, but she can see well enough with the lights from the windows and from beneath the door. Her eyes wander over her surroundings, her senses in overdrive as the thrill begins to fully kick in. There is always a high that comes with running over the city, but the chase itself brings a different sort of buzz that is more potent than any drug.

It was why she and Fisk came to the agreement to stop sending her on kill assignments. Whether because Fisk had always harbored such a deep-seated rage that had somehow rubbed off on her or because watching her father die in front of her had flipped a switch in her soul, she's never been sure which, she always found an inexplicable enjoyment of sorts in doling out Fisk's punishments. It's a part of herself that scares her when the day rolls around again.

She slinks through the rooms, her armor giving her enough camouflage in the darkness that most people wouldn't notice her. It always surprises her how unobservant most people are. They have all five senses, and yet they only pay attention to half of them at any given time. The thought of taking something like that for granted makes Maya sick. But, then again, she's always had to work harder to make up for what she doesn't have. She doesn't resent it, though. It's made her the stronger one in the end.

Farnum is sitting on his couch, his back turned to her as the TV screen flickers with brightly colored images of advertisements. His hand barely moves, a simple motion to change the channel, before he is still again. Maya steps lightly forward and reaches towards him. She thanks her luck that there isn't enough light in the room to cast her shadow onto the walls. The second he feels her arm brush against him, when he tries to shout in surprise, it is too late and her hand clamps down over his mouth and nose.

She wraps her left arm around his chest, keeping him from struggling too much and getting away. His feet tapping against the floor barely vibrate through the floor, a desperate attempt to alert anyone of the struggle, and she hopes that the sound is muffled by his lack of shoes and the thick rugs. This is the preferred method the Hand taught her for knocking someone unconscious when her primary goal is stealth. It leaves no traces of chemicals in the lungs or bloodstream, no pesky DNA samples beneath his fingernails, and, thanks to much trial and error of experimenting with different pressures and strength, no bruises where she is holding him.

When he goes slack against the cushions, she lets him go. She takes her time from there, moving the television remote to the coffee table and turning off the screen, smoothing out the rug where his scuffling wrinkled it, and searching for his gun. She finds it in the cabinet by the door, of all places. Her lips tug down at the sight. Does no one use proper gun safety, anymore?

She tucks the pistol into her belt, walking back to the officer on the couch. He is a particularly large man, something she is grateful for, and she spends the next few minutes working out the best way to drag him elsewhere. He is still heavy, but she has few problems as she half-drags him to a chair against the wall in the hallway. He is slumping in the rickety chair when she finally lets him go. Taking a step back, Maya looks at him the way an artist might look at a half-formed clay sculpture, trying to determine the best way to set the stage exactly how she wants it.

Adjusting him slightly in the chair, she gets him into a realistic position. Her hand moves back to the gun at her hip, pulling it out and giving it a once over. She checks the magazine and racks the gun once she's certain everything's in order. Kneeling down for a better angle, she wraps his fingers around the gun's grip, and guides his hand until she can slip the pistol's muzzle into his mouth.

It's too easy sometimes, she thinks sadly as she pulls the trigger.

She lets his hand fall, watching as his fingers unclench a fraction, but not enough for the gun to fall from his hands. Blood is splattered across the off-white wall behind him. It glistens like molten metal against the matte texture of the paint, crisscrossing across its surface like some macabre spider web. The sight reminds her of blood running through the cracked pavement and a body all too familiar.

A gasp escapes her as she reels back, stumbling back as a wave of panic and fear threaten to overwhelm her. It takes her only a second to shake free of the cobwebs of an old memory. She is not that scared little girl, she is not at all attached to the dead man before her, and she is not so weak and helpless anymore.

Turning away from the sight of Farnum, she walks back to the window and slips outside once more. The last thing she needs is for all of her work to go to waste simply because someone found her standing over the body. But she doesn't go directly back to Fisk's apartment, back to her strange life where no one is certain who or what she is. Instead, she makes her way to the tallest building she can scale. She stands there for hours, eyes turned skyward as she just lets the cool night air wash over her. The sense of serenity almost keeps the guilt at bay.

Almost…


	5. Chapter Four

It's nearly midnight when Maya fishes her phone out of her pocket, unlocking it quickly and swiping through her contacts. She doesn't use real names for her associates, just in case it falls into the wrong hands, but instead has aliases. They had once been under inconspicuous names, but they were changed when Wesley called the idea ridiculous. Now they are all under the names of historical figures – much to Wesley's irritation. Fisk is under 'Nero' while Wesley is under 'Niccolo Machiavelli'. She scrolls down until she reaches 'Vasily Zaytsev' and taps the speech bubble next to the number.

 **Busy tonight?**

It only takes a couple seconds for his reply to pop up.

 **Not anymore. Are you still mad?**

She smirks, typing her response quickly. It takes less than thirty seconds for it to go through.

 **Little bit. Mind if I drop by?**

His replies not long after.

 **You know I can't stop you,** ** _kotik._**

She scowls at the nickname, which he knows she hates. _He's probably laughing about it_ , she thinks to herself, _the damned bastard._ Unfortunately it's one of those nights and she could use the company. And Anatoly is one of the few people she's found who doesn't mind when she sees people on the side. Or the fact that only his brother knows of their relationship.

Though not interested in taking other partners of his own, he had been accepting of her conditions when they first decided to see each other – as 'dating' doesn't quite describe what they have. Their relationship is kept rather quiet, as both know the consequences they could face, but they had stuck together for a year already. A few of her side partners hadn't been so forgiving. Even fewer had agreed to the arrangement, but most got jealous after a while and she had to cut them loose.

She steps up onto the very edge of the building, looking down at the city streets with a smile. People still roam the sidewalks despite the early hour. Cabs still weave their way through traffic as though it is the sun in the sky rather than the moon. 'The City That Never Sleeps' is a fitting moniker but, to Maya, Hell's Kitchen is more of a heart, the streets like veins bringing in and sending out the traffic that makes up its blood cells. It is also diseased, as Fisk says. He thinks that it needs a rebirth, to be torn down and built back better, but Maya disagrees. The sickness allows her the adrenaline she craves. As long as Hell's Kitchen remains the way it is, she owns the night. She can allow her restraint to slip away and let go of the darkness she's felt since her father died.

With a grin, she steps easily off the roof. The air around her whips at her body armor, the sensation of falling dragging a laugh from her lips, but the danger is never present. She reaches out the second the metal of the fire escape is in view. Her sudden stop is jarring, but her grip does not loosen around the bars. She pulls herself over the edge and then she is running down the metal stairs until she is a dozen feet above the ceiling of the adjacent building. It takes no more effort to swing over to the outside of the fire escape, use it to push herself towards the other building, and roll into her landing than it had to jump off the side of the first apartment block.

The next ten minutes are spent running over the rooftops, using the fire escapes and other miscellaneous pipes when she needs to. She silently thanks the fact that parkour has become such an internet sensation, and that so many individuals have posted videos of it, as it's provided her with an easier way through the streets at night as well as one hell of a rush. She thinks about clambering through the access door on the ceiling and knocking on his door, but decides against it. The last thing she needs is for someone to see her in her body armor. So she does what she normally does when dropping by for a visit: drops down onto the fire escape and knocks softly on his window.

It takes him only a second to raise the blinds, an unamused expression on his face as he unlatches the window and slides it upward. She slips in the minute he takes a step back and closes it behind her. Nothing has changed inside since the last time she was there, not that it surprises her, and she turns her attention on Anatoly instead. He has his arms crossed as if trying to make a point that he's annoyed, but she can't find it in herself to take him seriously when it's obvious that he's just rolled out of bed.

"I thought we agreed you would come at reasonable hours," he says.

She pulls off her helmet, tossing it onto the coffee table, "I thought we agreed that our schedules are flexible."

"You're still angry at me," he remarks, taking a few steps closer to her.

"Has that ever stopped us?" she smirks as she runs a hand through his mussed hair.

His fingers brush over her hips before he pulls her flush against him, "никогда."

She doesn't bother replying, but instead tugs his face towards her. It's not an unusual kiss for them, all teeth and tongue and a fight for dominance, but he understands immediately what kind of night it's been. Her fingers are tangled in his dishwater blonde locks, her other hand already digging into the muscles of his back. He doesn't protest when she tugs him away and moves her lips down his jawline and neck. A moan reverberates through his throat, much like the notes through the side of her piano, and she can feel it against her lips. The sensation makes her grin.

She pushes him away entirely, watching as he stumbles backwards gracelessly, and all but growls, "Strip."

If it was any brighter in his apartment, Maya knows he would have refused. As it is, he pulls off his undershirt without a complaint, unaware that she can see fairly well in the barely lit. Among the tattoos that span across his chest and over his shoulders, there are dark puckered scars from the time he spent in Utkin. It had taken hours for her to get the full story out of him when they had first started sleeping together. He had been reluctant, though she couldn't entirely understand why, and she had distracted him afterwards by asking about his ink.

Most of the tattoos were a recorded history of his crimes. Epaulettes on his shoulders to signify high ranking in the criminal ring he had belonged to, the cross on his heart marking him as a 'prince of thieves', the stars on his collarbones stating that he is a man of discipline, the single _X_ on his hand recording that he was a hitman once, the _E_ on his middle finger stating he was a thief for a mob while the cathedral on his index finger assures his credibility as one, and the knight on his back just below his shoulder was earned for assault and battery. But her favorite is the ship on his stomach, which means that he has helped with prison breaks. She loves the idea that his story is literally penned onto his skin, as it appeals to her sense of romanticism.

He doesn't say a word as she pushes him back onto his couch, dropping pieces of her body armor as she saunters towards him. When she finally reaches him, she is down to just the robe-like material Potter had made for her, and Anatoly gives the tie a tug to make it slip off her body like silk. He licks his lips as she straddles his lap and she wastes no time in going back to trailing kisses across his neck. When she nips at his pulse, he thrusts up towards her with a groan.

Tapping her arm so that she can tell he wants to speak, he says, "The bed would be more comfortable, _kotik_."

She yanks his head back by a handful of his hair, relishing how his pupils dilate, "Don't call me that."

She lets go of him as soon as he nods in reply, allowing him to pick her up by her waist and carry her to the bedroom. He lets her down on his mattress, never taking his eyes off her as he pulls off his boxers, and she makes a show of trailing her fingers down her torso. She knows what he likes and what his weaknesses are, both inside the bedroom and out. It's her business to size up any and all of Fisk's associates. The only difference is that the situation changes with Anatoly, it's personal. She doesn't plan to use anything against him, but it is there in case the status quo changes. He knows the consequences, of course. She warned him when they first starting their little meetings that she would use everything she had against him if he ever does anything foolish.

They don't make love that night. He knows she doesn't come to him after midnight for something sensual, soft, and romantic. Instead, the next few hours are filled with a tempest, a whirlwind of teeth, nails, sweat, and blood. She wastes no time in sliding down onto him and he worries for a second that she's going to hurt herself. Recklessness is not something she often displays, but it is prominent when she has complete control of the situation. As she does in this instance. Anatoly had once admitted that he prefers to take control in his relationships but, for Maya, he makes an exception. Part of him rationalizes this by thinking of how she is very capable of killing him. The truth is much simpler: he loves the way she looks and sounds when she takes the reigns.

Her pace is quick and vicious, but her hands move from digging her nails into his shoulders to raking trails down his chest. He knows exactly what she is doing. She might be able to mimic the actions of others, replicating even the most difficult of forms with ease, but languages have always eluded her. Even though she can speak fluent English, it is like she loses the words in times like this, and she speaks through her actions instead Russian is something she has put painstaking effort into learning. However, she still has trouble and, when he slips into his native tongue, she is lost as to what he is saying. So she presses her palms flat against his chest or against the side of his throat and feels as his moans resonate through his body.

When she finally reaches her climax, Anatoly bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. She arches her back, the muscles in her arms and stomach completely on display, and her eyes flutter closed as she cries out. It takes all of his control, and that is quite a feat given the circumstances, but he manages to hold back his own peak. He waits until she is looking back down at him before he lets go, knowing she likes to watch. Her name forms on his lips like a mantra as he thrusts desperately up into her. All rhythm is gone as he rides out his orgasm.

She slides off of him easily, her grace the same as when she had slipped in through his window. It always surprises him that she could fuck him raw and still appear completely nimble afterwards. Both are breathing heavy, Maya's hand still lies over his heart, and Anatoly gives a laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asks, her fatigue making her words slur.

He shakes his head, "I thought I wouldn't see you for a long time. You were quite angry."

"You lied to me."

"You broke bottle over my head, _kotik_ ," he pointed out. "Volodya would have had your head if I hadn't stopped him. And if you weren't Fisk's girl."

"Be careful," she tells him. "Not everyone's as forgiving as I am. If anyone else heard you say his name-"

"I know," he says, kissing her forehead. "I trust you."

She laughs softly and pushes herself off the mattress. He grabs her hand before she can get off the bed completely, his blue-grey eyes meeting hers in the relative darkness. She's always loved their color, so different from her own dark brown eyes, as they remind her of the color of the ocean the day her father took her sailing.

"Stay tonight," he asks, and she gets the impression that it's almost a plea.

"Tolya…"

"You are tired and your home is far away," he says. "And the night is dangerous."

She smirks at that, "No more dangerous than I am. Besides, I know you'd have the head of anyone who hurt me, just as Wilson would."

"For me, _kotik_. Please."

She gives a sigh of resignation, settling back onto the bed next to him. He pulls her close, burying his face into the crook of her neck, and she takes a minute to appreciate the strange comfort that comes with lying in his arms. Though she doesn't approve of he and his brother's business, she tolerates the necessity of the cash it brings in. Besides, she justifies it with the thought that Anatoly has many redeemable qualities. Feeling his warm breath against her neck and his heartbeat against her spine, she closes her eyes and allows herself to fall asleep.


	6. Chapter Five

Maya awakes to the rumble of Anatoly's groan, a comfortably familiar series of vibrations that echo through her body like a miniature earthquake. She sighs in exasperation even as she feels him bury his face into his pillow beside her head. Their eyes meet when she turns over to face him, his are only half-opened as though he's not entirely awake yet, and she gives him a questioning look. Something must be happening which she can't hear, as he winces before glancing up at the open bedroom door. He says something, but she can't make out what it is, and stumbles off the bed.

"What is it?" she asks, stifling a yawn.

He doesn't turn around as he tugs a pair of jeans on, though she gets the feeling that he's replying to her, and the fact that she can't read his lips apparently doesn't cross his mind in his sleep-addled state. He's never been a morning person, and she's learned it takes a good fifteen minutes before he's completely awake. It's not as though she minds the mistake, though. It reminds her that he doesn't think of her as disabled.

"Tolya," she sighs, hoping her tone conveys her meaning.

He turns around with an almost embarrassed smile, "Apologies. Someone's knocking – my brother, no doubt."

She gives a groan, "Uncanny timing, as per usual."

Out of the corner of her eyes, she catches him laughing. Though she cannot hear the sound, which does bother her on occasion, she loves watching him laugh. His smile almost makes the scar at the corner of his lips disappear and his shoulders shake as though he can barely contain his amusement. She gets to her feet, making her way to his closet, as he walks out of the room and towards the front door. His clothes are a little too big for her, even with his slim build, but she only borrows them for a day at most. Her eyes flick towards the door and she allows herself a mischievous smirk before grabbing one of his leather jackets. She slips it on, not bothering to zip it up, and pulls on her panties as she walks to the bedroom door.

As they had expected, it is Vladimir walking inside the apartment as his older brother closes the door. He stops short as he sees Maya, his jaw clenching at the sight of her in the open jacket, and he quickly turns his eyes away. If she was anyone else, Maya knows he wouldn't bother with such courtesies. But he offers his respect out of the fact that she is Fisk's adopted daughter and his brother's lover. And he also dislikes her enough that he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of catching him checking her out.

"Я дyмал, вы расстались," he hisses at his brother.

"Я мoгy понять вас, вы ᴈнаете," she replies, crossing her arms at him.

"You butcher our language," he says to her. "And your accent is terrible."

"Oh, yes, nitpick the deaf woman's pronunciation. Very "

She and Vladimir have never seen eye to eye. He finds her to be untrustworthy due to her association with Fisk, and she sees him as a rash and arrogant fool whose enterprise is only still afloat because of Anatoly's slightly sturdier grasp of diplomacy. Despite the eldest Ranskahov brother's best, and many, efforts to make the two at least try to act civilized around each other, he has never fully succeeded in his endeavor. He finds them to always be particularly vindictive towards each other directly after Maya stays the night.

Vladimir scoffs at her, "I have business with my brother. Don't you have lap dog to appease?"

He nods towards something behind her, causing her momentary confusion before she glances in the direction he's indicated. Nothing seems out of the ordinary at first glance. Her armor still litters the floor, and it is only when she really looks at it that she sees what Vladimir was going on about. Her phone, which is half buried in the crumpled pile of her pants, is visibly vibrating and the screen is alight. _Shit_ , she thinks, scrambling for the device. Only one person would be texting her at this hour.

Sure enough, the screen is full of texts from Wesley. Though they seem calm at first glance, typical of the man's demeanor, she can tell he's agitated from the words he has used. She gives a sigh as she picks up her armor and heads back towards the bedroom. If she doesn't get out of Anatoly's apartment and let Wesley know she's not dead, he'll likely report back to Fisk. And she knows very well that it's in everyone's best interests if Fisk doesn't think something has happened to her.

She goes back to his closet, letting Anatoly's jacket slip easily off her shoulders and onto the floor, and digs through his mess of coat hangers to find something that's more likely to fit her. Though he's the thinner of the two brothers, he's still broader through the shoulders and abdomen than Maya, and even the smallest of his shirts hangs loosely on her like a sheet. She ends up pulling on one of his more threadbare Henleys and a pair of skinny jeans, which he adamantly swears he didn't buy for her but she knows better. On a spur of the moment decision, she pulls his leather jacket back on.

When she walks back out, Vladimir and Anatoly are still talking. From the way they're leaning towards each other, and the way Vladimir keeps glancing around between words, Maya can tell they're discussing something important regarding their business. She doesn't understand why they're bothering to whisper as her grasp of Russian is shaky at best and, more importantly, she can't hear a word they're saying. _Chalk it up to Vladimir's paranoia_ , she thinks as she pulls her old messenger bag from the cabinet beneath the television.

"Why are you wearing my brother's shirt?" Vladimir asks when he finally notices her. "His jacket?"

"This was an unplanned visit, and I don't do walks of shame," she tells him, stuffing her body armor into the bag.

Whatever he says next, a few other words in Russian with a particularly nasty sneer, must cross a line because both Vladimir and Maya are shocked when Anatoly slaps his brother across the face. The blow isn't using all of his strength given that it's only barely turning red, but it succeeds in completely catching their attention. Both stare at the eldest Ranskahov as though he's lost his mind. In all the time she has known the brothers, she has never known them to become violent towards each other, particularly Anatoly. When he finally speaks to his brother, it is in English so she can read his lips.

"You are my brother, Volodya, and I love you," he says, meeting Vladimir's eyes in an unwavering gaze. "But I expect you to respect Maya. Do not insult her again."

Vladimir gives his brother a disbelieving look, but snaps something quick in Russian and slams the door on his way out. Anatoly sighs and shakes his head at the display.

"You shouldn't have done that," she tells him, coming to stand beside him. "He'll be angry with you."

He gives a scoff, giving her a faint smile, "He is always angry. Give him time, and he will calm. As always"

She can't help but smile in return, knowing that it's true, "Still, he's just worried about you. He doesn't trust me, thinks I'm using you, and with good reason. I'd probably think the same thing if I was in his position."

"Are you?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"Using you?"

" _Da_."

She offers him a smirk and hooks her fingers into the waistband of his jeans to pull him closer, "Do you really think I would tell you if I was?"

She can feel his laugh echoing through his chest as he leans down to kiss her. Her phone gives another buzz in her pocket, another text alert from Wesley, and she groans as she pulls away.

"I swear to God…"

"Is lap dog giving you trouble," Anatoly asks. "Doesn't know how to sit and stay?"

She types in a quick message to say that she's on her way before slipping it back into her pocket, "He's just anxious. Nothing I can't handle."

He raises his eyebrows, and she can see the offer of getting rid of Wesley forming on his lips, so she changes the subject before he can speak.

"Do you have any plans Friday night?"

"No," he says hesitantly, visibly taken aback by the question.

"Good," she tells him. "I've got a benefit this Friday and you're my plus-one, so rent a suit and I'll text you the address."

"Benefit," he repeated, the skepticism clear in his expression. "It's not a good idea."

"Tolya, it's going to be full of celebrities and debutantes. No one is going to recognize you," she assured him.

He holds up the back of his hand with a dry expression, showing off his myriad of tattoos. Not a word needs to be spoken for her to understand what he's saying, what point he's trying to make, and she gives him an amused smile.

"Nothing a little makeup wouldn't cover up," she assures him. "I should go."

Before she can step away, she feels his hand close around her wrist. She looks back at him, his eyes traveling up from her hand before meeting her eyes, and he almost looks amused.

"Why _are_ you wearing my jacket."

She looks down at the worn black leather, "Because it's comfortable and I'm stealing it. Hope you don't mind."

"Would it make difference if I said yes?"

She leans up on her toes to press a quick kiss against his lips, "Not at all."

She watches the way his lips curl into a smile before turning away, her messenger bag slung over her shoulder, and walking out the door. It's a good deal warmer in the hall than it was in Anatoly's apartment, something she's never mentioned to him before. There are only a few other people in the hallways and stairwell as she makes her way out of the apartment.

The streets are already filling with men and women on their way to work, to coffee shops, to whatever little trivial things they start their day with. On a normal day, Maya would hit the gym for three hours before heading to the library she volunteered at. Fisk has enough money to keep her from needing a day job, but she likes to keep busy, and it helped to create a positive image for her to project into society. That was not to say that she didn't enjoy helping the people around Hell's Kitchen.

Even through her boots, she can feel the echoes of thousands of footsteps. If she focuses, the way Nobu and his men taught her, she can pick apart each separate gait. But her thoughts are broken by another, closer vibration. She sighs as she pulls her phone out of her pocket. It's yet another text message from Wesley, and she wonders if he's genuinely afraid that something might have happened to her.

 **Do you need a ride? Text the address and I'll send a car.**

She shakes her head at his distress, typing, **I'm fine. I'll get a cab.**

She's almost certain he'll text again, but is relieved when he doesn't. It doesn't take long for her to flag down a taxi. She gives the driver the address, watching his lips in the rearview mirror, though he doesn't say much. The trip is relatively quick, all things given. Perhaps it just seems that way given the events of the morning so far. She fishes through her pockets, stifling a laugh when she pulls out a bundle of one hundred dollar bills and a few crumpled twenties. Anatoly must have forgotten that he had left some of his cash in his pocket, something which Maya has found to be entirely common with him, and she makes a mental note to give him the rest as soon as she can.

For now, she's sure he won't mind if she borrows it. A little grin plays across her lips, thinking of how the other Ranskahov brother will react, as the sum certainly seems like the price for one of their smaller business transactions. She's certain Vladimir will throw a fit when he finds out. And anything to piss off the younger Russian brother is a bonus in her eyes.


	7. Chapter Six

The second the cab stops outside the apartment block, she hands the driver enough money to cover the fare and tells him to keep the change. There is a skeptical look in his eyes but he doesn't argue. She's starting to get tired as she leans against the side of the elevator, her thoughts drifting to the new coffee Fisk had mailed in from Colombia, and she wonders if maybe she should catch a few more winks instead of going out.

Those thoughts are tossed out the second she walks through the door of her apartment, along with much of her weariness, as she is greeted by the sight of Wesley. He's standing right in the middle of the hallway, his eyes on his expensive Cartier watch. His lips part as he goes to say something but they snap shut the second he looks up at her.

"Those aren't your clothes," he says, forgetting to sign to her in his confusion.

 _How very astute of you_ , she signs with a sarcastic smile. _Care to tell me what you're doing in my apartment?_

"My employer is visiting his penthouse. The construction workers are finally done with renovations," he tells her, finally signing along with his words. "He told me to stay here to let you know that he's giving this entire apartment to you when his is furnished. I'm to ask if you want any renovations done to the current layout and aid you in any redecorating."

 _Wilson left this whole place to me?_ she signs as she turns the main area, watching Wesley out the corner of her eye. _I didn't even know he had a penthouse anywhere else._

"He meant for it to be a surprise," Wesley admits, and Maya notices that his grasp of SEE is getting better. "An early birthday present."

 _Very early_ , she remarks, tossing her messenger bag onto the couch. _Are you hungy?_

"Hungry?" he repeats, looking taken aback.

 _Yes, hungry. I'm starving. So if I'm making breakfast, I might as well know if I'm cooking for two._

"I didn't know you cook."

 _There are a lot of things you don't know about me,_ she replies. _Now, if you want to keep this conversation going, you're going to have to come to the kitchen._

He sidesteps her, walking backwards so that she can see him perfectly.

"Can't you," he stops, even his hands falling slightly as he tries to think of what he wants to say. "I don't know, use a mirror or something? Like before."

Maya gives him a look that clearly displays how much of an idiot she thinks he is at that moment, _Do you see a mirror anywhere? Besides, lip-reading is an art, not a science and your signing is only adequate. If you want me to know exactly what you're saying, which I almost never do since I only catch most of your words, I'm going to need to be able to see you clearly._

He looks a bit shocked at her rant, but obviously knows enough to simply nod in understanding. As he leans against the corner cabinets, mostly accommodating to what she had asked, Maya kneels down in the cabinets to pull out a cast iron pan. She can feel his eyes on her even as she walks to the fridge.

"Do you want pancakes or an omelet?" she asks him aloud, finding it easier not to sign to him as she surveys the contents of the fridge. "Or we could have french toast."

She glances around the door of the fridge, watching the way his eyes widen minutely, "So you can speak."

"I'm deaf, not mute," she scoffs. "But why should I work for anyone else's comfort? You have to meet me halfway, which you've done. Now what do you want for breakfast? I'm assuming you haven't eaten yet, given the hour."

"Whatever you want to have, that's fine with me."

She shrugs, "Suit yourself."

It doesn't take long for her to retrieve the ingredients she needs from the cupboards, as she had long since memorized where Fisk keeps everything, and slap together the batter for pancakes. Though not actively looking at Wesley, as she's certain he'll tap her shoulder or give a short wave if he wants her undivided attention, she can feel Wesley's gaze on her. She doesn't bother looking up when he walks off.

She's pouring the batter into almost-circles in the pan when something moving through the air catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. Clumps of batter fly out of the bowl, splattering her arm and shirt, as something dark sinks into the batter. She turns around, leveling an accusatory glare at Wesley.

"What did you throw into my pancakes?"

He motions to the bag of chocolate chips on the counter, tossing a few in his mouth, "I thought you might have wanted some."

"Then you should have walked up and asked," she snaps, snatching the chocolate chips off the counter and returning to the stove. "And waited for me to answer. Like a normal person would have."

He walks back to the corner, stealing a few more chocolate chips from the bag as he says, "Strange words coming from the adopted daughter of Wilson Fisk."

She scoffs, sparing him a glance as she flips over a pancake, "Be careful. We're not supposed to say his name."

He gives her a crooked smile, surprising her with how genuine it looks, and she nearly drops the spatula in her hand. It doesn't have the same cynicism as the one she saw in the café, but it's just as startling on his face. She turns to face him completely the second she can and points her spatula at him in what's supposed to be an intimidating gesture.

"You know, I'm never certain if you're a relatively nice person who pretends to be an ass," she tells him. "Or an ass who pretends to be a relatively nice person."

"Oh?"

Although is expression is schooled into a blank mask, she can see the laughter in his eyes. But whether he's laughing at her or not is impossible to tell. _Intolerable jackass_ , she thinks to herself.

"Yeah," she says, choosing not to voice her thoughts. "Every time I think I've got you pinned, you do something completely out of the blue and I'm back to square one."

"You're awfully candid today," he remarks.

She offers a half-shrug before returning her attention to the pancakes, "I didn't know how much Wilson paid you before yesterday – caught a glimpse of the check he was signing. He pays you enough that I can trust you."

When she looks back up at him, his brow is furrowed and his head quirked to the side, "Care to explain how my paycheck relates to whether or not I'm trustworthy?"

"Do me a favor and get the plates," she says with a smirk. "To my right, third-"

"Third cabinet from the end," he finishes before walking around her and opening the cabinet she described.

"Get the butter and silverware while you're at it," she says as she plops the two finished pancakes onto one of his plates. "And the maple syrup."

She spares him one last glance, catching the odd smile he has on his face. The more time she actually spends with him, the less sense he seems to make, and it's disconcerting to her. It was almost more tolerable when he refused to associate with her.

Wesley places the butter and maple syrup on the counter by the stove, taking a moment to place two forks and knives on the empty plate before his hand just barely touches her shoulder. It's a cautious contact, as though he's uncertain as to how she'll react to him breaking her personal space, but it remains there until she looks up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You never answered my question," he says, pulling his hand away to sign, as well.

"I don't trust people in this life who aren't motivated by money," she answers, sliding the last of the pancakes onto the nearest plate. "Or, at least, by power. Actually, I don't fully trust anyone, but I can rely on a well-paid acquaintance to at least have some modicum of loyalty. People who are motivated solely by enjoyment and passion are reckless…dangerous. They get funny notions like leveling the playing field."

Maya doesn't bother giving an example, although she does have a stunning one. Lester had been solely motivated by the thrill of the kill, taking an inane pleasure with every shot he took, and that much had become clear to her later in their relationship. It was all a game for him. It might have been fine, had he not gotten too good at playing it.

Then he had decided it would be fun to give his targets a fair shot, but that made him sloppy, and Maya has no room for negligence in her life. He hadn't argued when she told him it was over. That had always been a good thing about Lester. Mercenary life meant that he never had a problem severing ties, and they had parted on amicable terms.

It's only when Wesley taps the back of her hand lightly that she realizes he's trying to talk to her again.

"Could you repeat that?"

He doesn't frown at her words, which is something of an anomaly among hearing people, "What makes you think I'm motivated by money?"

"Because you didn't come from money," she says with a smirk, handing him a plate of pancakes and his silverware.

She can practically feel the way he tenses, as though keeping expressionless will keep her from realizing she's right.

"Don't act surprised. Your whole personality says it," she explains, not bothering to look up as she fixes her own plate. "I thought you might have been the spoiled son of a businessman, maybe a stockbroker, but then I started paying more attention. You have that whole private school brand of snide, but I'm guessing that's more of a defense mechanism. If you did go to expensive schools, it was always on scholarships, so you had to prove to the other kids that you belonged with them.

"You're also flashy with your purchases – every label has to be visible, so people know who you're wearing. Yesterday was Armani, today is Zegna. And then there's that Cartier watch you always wear. You've been out of the classroom for years and you're still not comfortable with your status."

Maya sits down at the table in the chair facing Wesley, watching carefully for his reaction as she takes a bite of her pancakes. He has an odd expression on his face, as though he can't decide what he should feel in response to her words, and she fights an amused smile.

"So says the woman in men's clothing," he snaps at last, looking slightly more collected. "Does Fisk know you're sleeping with the Ranskahovs?"

"Good, you're paying more attention," she says with a laugh. "And I'm only sleeping with one of them."

"Does he know?"

"Wilson doesn't own me. He has his secrets, I have mine. We respect that," she tells him, giving him a pointed look. "And I expect you to do the same."

She takes a few more bites, deciding to enjoy her breakfast rather than linger over the fact that Wesley is much more perceptive than she had originally given him for. It's actually a pleasant surprise. He's not the simple pawn she had thought he was, which makes him a step-up from Silkworth, and that gives her someone to actually talk to. Not to mention that he's already proven that he won't walk on eggshells around her because she's Fisk's daughter.

When she looks back up at him, standing in front of the table with his plate of pancakes still in hand, she notices he is staring at her as though she is a particular challenge that he can't quite make sense of. But there is also something else in his expression, almost as though he has some sort of abstract interest in her. She laughs silently at the perplexed look in his eyes.

"Are you going to keep standing there?" she asked. "Or are you going to join me for breakfast."

He doesn't sit at the other head of the table, but instead takes the seat directly to her right. Not a play for dominance, but not a sign of total submission, either. She smiles at the silent challenge. He mutters something down to his pancakes with that same crooked smile from earlier. Though she didn't catch what he had said, she can guess his words from his expression and body language.

 _So,_ she thinks, _I guess I'm not the only one who's surprised by what I see_. _Perhaps he won't be as intolerable as I thought…_


	8. Chapter Seven

Maya spits out the blood that's staining her teeth, but the coppery taste still lingers on her tongue. The mats beneath her feet reverberate with the stomping of feet in the audience and the soft bounce of her opponent. People shouting excitedly can be seen just beyond the makeshift ring, some of whom are holding white ticket stubs. She knows for a fact that many of them are not betting on her. There are only a handful that comes to her every match, who know that she is the safe bet, and so she insists on only certain opponents.

Her opponent is a man this time. Larger than what she is used to, but she likes the challenge. She knows she can't take him with brute force, as it would take only a few good hits to get her down, and so she can work on her improvisation. This isn't just an exercise, though. She has a good amount of money coming her way if she can come out on top. And though her opponent might be bigger than her, he has all the signs of an amateur.

His hands aren't wrapped properly and she knows he will have a few broken knuckles by the end to the night. Most of his hits have been directed towards her head, shying aware from her torso as though afraid of hitting her breasts, and he already has a fight bite from where he missed and hit her teeth.

It's nights like this that Maya wishes she had a heavier build. She can mimic just about anyone, and has recorded an arsenal of combinations strictly for tonight, but she can only reproduce each move with the force and flexibility that her frame allows her. It's a good thing she was able to order the videos of light-weight fighters.

Her opponent's body language gives away his every move before he makes it and, this time, she takes advantage of that. Footwork like Sugar Ray Leonard and his knuckles barely graze her skin as he misses. Slipping into the offensive, she replicates Muhammad Ali's, the only heavyweight she's ever studied, signature left jab and overhand right combo. A jab to his throat forces him to keel forward, allowing her more momentum as she rams her hand into his solar plexus.

His whole body shakes as he sucks in a breath and she's pulled back into a memory.

 _Her father taking a deep breath as he sees the shadowy figure approach. He pushes Maya behind him, and she can no longer see what he is saying to the stranger. But she does catch the reflective glint of a gun in the faint streetlight._

She weaves around him, bringing him known with a kick to the back of the knees, and she jabs twice towards his kidneys. Even if she misses by an inch, she can still feel his body recoil in pain beneath her knuckles.

 _She sees the shot go off, a flash of light against the dark alley. Her father stumbles backwards, nearly trampling her, before he keels forward. She doesn't scream. Instead, she kneels by his side, her palms pressed to the wound in his chest as if to stop the bleeding. The barrel of the gun is inches from her face when she looks up._

Her opponent is stumbling painfully to his feet again, but she doesn't let him. She can't see him anymore, only the shadowy man who took her father from her, and she loses all sense of restraint. Her fingers tangle in his hair and she pulls his head back viciously, her right fist coming down on his clavicle.

 _The shadow-man doesn't pull the trigger. He pulls away slowly, as though coming to the conclusion that killing her isn't worth it. Maybe he has some sliver of a conscience. Or maybe he sees the cold glint in her eyes, an empty mask that earned her the nickname 'Jorōgumo' among Nobu's men, and wants nothing more to do with her. She watches him silently as he walks away._

Her hands are stained in blood, just as they were when she tried to stop her father from bleeding out. But it is the blood of her opponent. She looks down at his face, his eyes wide in shock and his pale skin turned red, and feels as though she's stepping back into her body. The feeling of the crowd around them seems to ground her at last and she finishes him off in the fashion of Oscar de la Hoya.

She glances around at the faces of the crowd, mouths contorted into incomprehensible shouts, and feels as though she had awoken from sleep. Her heartbeat hammers through her body as though to remind her that she is alive. In a stupor, she pushes past the supposed referee and leaps over the ropes. The crowds part as she stalks through them, rolling her shoulders as though she can shed the past like a cloak.

For an underground boxing league, they always set up in fairly nice buildings. She even has a locker room to herself tonight. Her reflection in the mirror is the first thing she sees, as it sits directly across from the door, and she is greeted by the sight of blood splattered across her face and arms. Crimson on terra cotta. She moves towards the sink, splashing water over her hands and face. It stains the water pink as it flows down the drain.

When she looks up, there is a man in the doorway. Roman, the brains behind the entire operation, watches her carefully before taking a step closer. He even has the courtesy to wait until she's turned to face him before he speaks.

"What was that?" he asks.

His shoulders are not quite hunched, but they're not relaxed, either. There's a stiffness to his jaw that she almost never sees when he speaks to her. He's not pleased with her, but he won't shout or overstep his boundaries. Roman may not know what exactly she is, nor will he ask, but he is smart enough to recognize that she is dangerous. He once told her that he can recognize it in the way she carries herself. 'Like a panther stalking a lost explorer,' had been his exact description.

"A victory," she answers.

"You know damn well that's not what I meant," he replies. "New boxers ain't easy to find, Lopez."

She scoffs at him, "If you don't want me to break them in, don't keep inviting me back here."

"It'll be weeks before Russell's back on the mats!"

"How much money do I make you, Roman?" she snaps, closing the distance so that they are a few meager inches from each other. "How many people throw money at you to bet against the little deaf girl?"

He doesn't answer, but she relishes the fact that his whole body tenses as she violates his personal space.

"If you don't like my methods, fine, we'll agree to disagree. But don't ever imply that some meathead kid you picked up off the street is worth more to you than I am. Because we both know you're lying through your teeth."

He doesn't reply, but he does take a step back, which is as good a submission as she knows she's going to get from him. His mouth opens, but she guesses it's a sigh because she can't make anything of it. She watches as he pulls a bundle of cash out of his jacket pocket and hands it to her. The second she takes it from him, he turns and stomps out the door. She knows he won't ask her to come back for a few good months.

Turning around, her eyes catch sight of the mirror and she drops the wad of bills. There is a bloody hand print across her face, the pad of the palm resting on her temple as the fingers splay over her eyelids and the bridge of her nose, and the hooks of her past dig into her skin once more. She watches a mouth move in her memory. They say words she cannot hear, words she did not understand until much later.

 _"_ _Shut your eyes, Maya_ ," _they say._

 _She looks down at her father on the stretcher, shaking with each move of the ambulance they are in. His eyes are barely open but he watches her the entire time. The same phrase leaves his lips again, but she can't tell what they say, and he places his hand over her eyes._

 _Blood smears on her eyelashes and skin as his fingers slip away. There's a vacant look in her eyes and the EMT is frantic as he tries to remedy the flat line on the monitor. She reaches for her father, ignoring the blood on her face, and shakes his shoulder anxiously. He doesn't look at her again._

There's a sharp pain in her hand and Maya blinks at what she sees. She's right in front of the mirror, the glass cracked in a circle, her now bleeding fist in the center of it. There is no handprint on her face.

She sighs, pulling her hand away from the fractured mirror and inspects the cut. There doesn't seem to be any glass in it, besides the pin sized piece that she pulls out with ease, and she rips one of the hand towels into strips so she can wrap them around her knuckles. She'll have to go in to a clinic later, if only to make sure she doesn't do any permanent damage to her hand.

She doesn't waste any time in pulling her jeans and jacket out of the locker, tossing her exercise bra and shorts into her messenger bag as she changes. Throwing it over her shoulder, she picks up the cash she dropped and stuffs it in with the clothes, walking out one of the side exits. The sun has yet to come up and Maya checks the time on her phone.

Five thirty – a decent time to be up. She unlocks it, scrolling through her contacts until she gets to the _N_ 's. It takes only a second to type out a message and hit send.

 **U up?**

The reply is slower, she's halfway to the main street when it arrives, and she can picture Wesley's expression as she reads it.

 **Isn't that a rather redundant question?**

Of course he would be one of those people who types out full words when texting. She does text Anatoly by spelling out the words, but that had only been after he had been confused on the meaning of 'ttyl'. It still brings a smirk to her lips as she fires off another message.

 **Y/N?**

 **No** , is his answer and Maya laughs.

 **Do u think u can pick me up?** , she asks.

She can practically see the scoff he gives when he sends back, **I am NOT coming to the Ranskahovs.**

 **Im not A's** , she tells him. **Corner of 12th and W 58th. We can get breakfast.**

When he doesn't reply within the next two minutes, she adds, **I'll buy.**

 **I'm almost there.**

She blinks at that, absentmindedly pulling her hair loose from its tight braids, wondering where he is that he would almost be there. Did Fisk have him on some early-morning errands? Instead of answering, she stuffs her phone back into her pocket and tussles her hair so that it doesn't look too much like she's been working out.

When he pulls up to the curb, she can see his eyebrows draw together in what's a mix between worry and confusion. He moves to get out, no doubt to walk around and open her door for her, but she waves for him to stop. It doesn't keep him from leaning over and pushing her door open.

"Who hit you?" he asks as she slides onto the seat.

She shrugs, "Something Russell. He's in worse condition than I am, if you must know."

He doesn't say anything but, then again, he doesn't need to. She can read enough of his thoughts through the way his hands clench around the steering wheel and his eyes narrow a centimeter.

"You don't have to worry about telling Wilson," she tells him, gauging his reaction to her words. "It was just a boxing match."

"An underground boxing match?" he snaps, the indignation sparking in his pale green eyes.

"Wilson knows. He even attends, from time to time," she says. "Speaking of, where is he?"

"He had" – he looks back to the road and she loses the word – "to establish."

"He had what?"

"Disconnections," he says, facing her just long enough for her to catch it.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, "Who has he had killed this time?"

He has the good sense to pull one hand away and spells out the name. _P-R-O-H-A-S-Z-K-A._ She recognizes the name immediately.

"Rigoletto's man?"

He nods, "He wouldn't agree to the terms."

"Is that why you were so close when I texted?"

As they pull up to the red light, he's able to look at her without worrying about watching the road.

"I have to see a lawyer about Healey."

Another name she recognizes as Fisk's favorite assassin after Rance.

"Landman and Zack?"

Wesley shakes his head, "A little firm called Nelson and Murdock."

He turns at the last minute as the light turns green, signing the names again. She tries to think of whether or not she's heard that name before, but nothing comes up, and she watches the impassive expression on his face.

"Never heard of them," she mutters. "Now, I don't know about you, but I feel in the mood for hash browns and eggs."


	9. Chapter Eight

_And a little bit of Mayatoly before it's too late. Since Wesley was going to Nelson & Murdock last chapter, that puts us squarely in "Rabbit in a Snowstorm". After that, it's not long before Anatoly loses his head and the only time we'll see him again is in flashbacks. This may seem like a filler chapter, but don't be deceived. It'll make sense in the long-run._

* * *

The second Maya steps out of the car - after breakfast, of course - she's glad that Wesley has other things on his mind. He wouldn't have been pleased had he seen who is standing on the sidewalk. Anatoly's already waiting beside the building, watching as the car disappears into traffic as though he can recognize Wesley from behind the darkened glass windows. But he smiles when he catches her looking at him.

 _Breakfast with lap-dog?_ , he signs as she comes closer.

It's been nearly a year since they started their strange relationship, but Anatoly has worked hard to be able to communicate with her as best he can. His grasp of ASL isn't as flawless as Fisk's, certainly not as dismal as Wesley's, but she appreciates the gesture. He took to swearing the quickest. Sometimes, when she happens to go to one of the meetings between Wesley and Fisk's associates, she catches him signing 'asshole' to her as Wesley speaks. The only other one who Anatoly has a silent nickname for is Leland, who was accidentally dubbed 'twat waffle'. It had turned out that he had been told the wrong sign for another lewd name and hadn't known until Maya had started laughing in the middle of Leland's speech. After that, the name stuck.

 _Are you jealous_? she signs back, stopping a foot in front of him.

 _Of him?_ he asks, raising an eyebrow. _Never._

She loops her fingers around the hem of his jeans to pull him closer. He's only two inches taller than her, but she still notices the subtle tilting of his face as he looks down at her. People are looking at them as they walk by, Maya can practically feel their eyes on her and Anatoly, but neither of them pay any mind.

"Good," she tells him, pressing a second-long kiss against the corner of his lips. "You know that if I wanted another partner, I'd tell you."

"And you know that you could be with anyone," he replied, walking in with her. "But lap-dog is off-limits."

She gives him a scoff, as if to say that he has no say over where her limits lie, but he knows that. He's simply expressing his disgust with Wesley. As they walk into the store, she gently runs her fingers over the back of his hand. He's covered up the tattoos with concealer again, as he does whenever she drags him off to anywhere outside of Hell's Kitchen, as though anybody might look at his ink as anything other than aesthetic choice. His paranoia makes her roll her eyes.

"Did you get the suit?"

" _Da_."

The store clerks don't bother either of them, as Maya had requested beforehand, and Anatoly doesn't protest as she leads him through the mannequins and racks until she reaches the cocktail dresses and evening gowns. He gives her an odd as she lets his hand go.

 _Why did you want me here_? he signs, eyes glancing away from her for only a second as he looks at the dresses.

She shrugs, _Do I need a reason to invite you somewhere?_

He shifts his weight, his shoulders squaring as though he's uncomfortable. But she can see from the faint twitch of his lips, despite the set of his jaw, that's he's biting back a smile.

 _You just want someone to compliment you._

"Of course I do," she laughs, turning to look at the dresses. "And you do it oh, so well."

The reverberation of his footsteps is muffled by the thin carpet beneath them, but she can just barely feel him walking closer. He skirts the edges of her periphery vision before sliding the dresses before her aside so that she can see him. There's a sharp glint of white teeth in his smile and mischief in his eyes.

"You make it too easy," he tells her.

Maya barely keeps from rolling her eyes, "God, when did you get so cheesy?"

She doesn't bite back her laugh when he, quite literally, seems to puff out his chest at her words. He almost looks truly offended by her words.

"Cheesy?"

"Like pizza," she says, knowing full well that's she's just pushing her luck now.

He scoffs, or does something that she supposes is something along the lines of a scoff, and takes a step back. She understands the distance is so she can better see it when he signs, _Bullshit_. Before she can reply, he pulls down a dress to his immediate right and holds it for her to see. He raises an eyebrow in the silent question as to what she thinks.

It's a pretty gown. A strange midpoint between charcoal grey and dark blue, it looks vaguely reminiscent of a simpler version of a medieval dress. She guesses that it creates a mermaid silhouette, its back hem longer to create a small train paired with an off-shoulder neckline that's not too revealing. But what captures her attention is the way the long, loose sleeves almost appear cape-like.

"Who's it made by?" she asks, feeling the fabric - _polyester?_ \- between her fingers.

Anatoly fumbles for a minute as he searches for any place where it might say the designer before answering with some garbled, awkward movement of his mouth that she can't comprehend.

"What?"

 _J-O-V-A-N-I_ , he signs with his free hand.

She grimaces and shakes her head, "What is that doing here? No, I need something a bit more high-end for where we're going."

He frowns, looking down at the dress and back at her, "Where are we going?"

"Tony Stark's benefit for human-extraterrestrial communications," she says. "Apparently, he's raising money for an Asgardian embassy."

"Asgardian?"

She waves her hand dismissively before turning her eyes back to the gowns, "Where the hot blonde in Ren Faire armor is from."

Another dress catches her eye and she pulls it down so she can get a better view of it. It's a halter gown, olive green in color, with a banded neckline and a slit in its column skirt. Simple, but elegant. The fabric feels like silk between her fingers. But there's something else, something coarse. Anatoly taps her on the shoulder before she can think of what it is.

 _How do you know Stark?_ he signs, his brows pulled down in a thoughtful line.

"I don't. But I do know Miss Potts."

 _How?_

Maya puts the dress back as she recalls her meeting with the CEO, "She spilled coffee down my shirt one morning. We got to talking and I found the violinist who she had booked for an event for the children's ward at Metro-General had cancelled on short notice. We arranged it so that I would play, instead, and I'm on call for them whenever they might need a live musician."

Instead of answering, Anatoly raises an eyebrow at her. She can't really blame him for his surprise at her words. Reconciling the philanthropic artist, even with her personally living it, with the deadly assassin he sees isn't an easy feat. Instead of saying this, she shrugs her shoulders at him.

 _I have to keep up some illusion of normalcy_ , she signs to him.

Before he can bother to continue with their line of conversation, she pulls another dress down and holds it up before her.

"This one."

Maya's not usually one to like J. Mendel, but this particular eminence purple gown is perfect. It's a perfect balance between silk and chiffon, the plunging keyhole halter neck and tulle mesh inlets at the waist making it just flirtatious enough without crossing the line into skimpy, and the skirt is pleated like a Greek chiton.

" _Nyet_."

Maya blinks at him, "No? What do you mean 'no'? What's wrong with it?"

"Purple."

She looks down at the dress and back up at him, "What's wrong with purple?"

"It's not good color."

She barely bites back a smile at his expression. He's tilted his face downward slightly, his blue-grey eyes narrowed, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. It's almost as if he's trying to imply that it's obvious.

"It will look better on," she assures him. "Don't you trust me?"

Anatoly doesn't answer. Instead, he moves to the side, pushing through dress after dress, looking more determined than she has ever seen him. Maya has to bite back a laugh at the serious expression on his face as he looks through the dresses. Without any preamble, he pulls one at random, walking around the row of hangers. It isn't until he is on her side of the dresses that she sees the one he's picked.

She can't say he doesn't have good taste. The dress is a black jersey gown with a plunging v-neck, the shoulders structured and the front waist ruched. Spanning from the cuffs to about halfway up the long sleeves, perhaps ending at the elbow, was an intricate embellishment of silver beading of swirling semicircles. Everything about it looked elegant, but there was an almost dangerous edge to it. It was the kind of dress a prestigious prosecutor might wear.

As her eyes travel up the silky material, she just barely catches sight of Anatoly tapping his lips with two fingers. He speaks the second he's certain he has her full attention.

"This one," he says. "Proud, regal, like a queen of this city."

"I'm no queen," she tells him, returning the Mendel back to its place.

He shrugs, stepping closer until he stands just a few feet from her, "Not yet. But Fisk, he cannot control this city."

 _He's been doing a decent job so far_ , she signs, her eyes glancing around them to see if anyone might be close enough to overhear them.

"Look at Union Allied, or how he negotiated with Prohaszka. He will not even try with the _mudak_ in mask."

Maya closes the distance between them, but it is not a motion of intimacy, and her fingers close around the hanger. As though realizing the change, Anatoly stiffens visibly. But he doesn't move. Nor, to his credit, does he flinch.

"Don't be reckless like your brother, Tolya. He's keeping out of things for a reason. Anonymity is nearly impossible to achieve, so he sticks to the shadows. And, sometimes, that means staying out of things. I have faith in you and your brother's capabilities. One man in a mask is child's play. Get rid of him, continue your work, and things will get better."

"Get rid of him," Anatoly echoes, his eyes glancing off for a second as his head bobs in what might be a scoff. "You have not seen this man. Semyon sleeps for three days, hole in his head just above eye." - Anatoly taps a spot just below his left eyebrow for emphasis - "Black mask is not as weak as you think."

"If it bleeds, it can be killed," she mutters.

Her eyes turn downward towards the dress in her hands and she misses the surprised expression on Anatoly's face. Her father's face flashes through her mind's eye, but she tries to focus on the feel of the fabric rather than her memories. But viscose isn't particularly difficult to identify, glossy like silk but light like cotton, and her mind begins to wander to the man in black.

She hasn't had the privilege of his acquaintance yet. With her minimal interference in Fisk's business, it isn't often that she runs across many colleagues and enemies of their syndicate. Despite that, rumors do spread quickly in her city, and she's heard enough to know that he's been tearing through the Ranskahovs' men like tissue paper. Part of her hopes she runs across this Devil before his luck runs out. Whether that is due to a morbid sense of curiosity or a want for a physical equal, she does't know.

Shaking her head to dispel such thoughts, she lets the fabric slip through her fingers and looks up at Anatoly. She smiles, noting how he seems to be taken aback by her sudden change in mood, and takes a step back.

 _You're right_ , she signs. _This one is better_.


	10. Chapter Nine

Sorry for the delay. College has been time-consuming, to say the least. But last week was spring break, so I managed to write this one up, and watch Season Two (which I have a love-hate relationship with, but that's not the point). In other news: ugh, we're getting really close to Anatoly's death and I really don't wanna write Maya's reaction. I know we haven't seen much of them, but I've got flashbacks written up for later chapters and I've grown too attached to their ship.

Also, yes, I'm going with hard-of-hearing!Clint Barton. Why? Because why not? I personally loved the idea of deaf and hard of hearing superheroes - good thing, too, or this story wouldn't exist. Anyway, I'll let you guys read.

Oh, and the subtext in the conversation between Clint and Maya is completely open to your interpretation. ;-)

* * *

"More champagne?"

Maya sighs as the words form on the bartender's lips. She's had three glasses of champagne already, plucked from the silver trays held aloft by the numerous wait staff wandering around the ballroom of the Avengers Tower, and it's only been an hour. Anatoly is nowhere to be seen, and she's reaching the end of her patience with the several guests milling about.

"If I wanted that, I would have picked one up," she snaps back. "Find the biggest bottle of the strongest goddamn liquor Stark's got and just bring it here."

He raises his eyebrows, but the look in her eyes must warn him off because he immediately moves to get her a drink. A soft tap on the back of her hand catches her attention, her eyes traveling up a very well-sculpted arm - revealed by the t-shirt that looks out of place among the suits and gowns of the other patrons - until her gaze is met with eyes like supernovas and, even if she hadn't been familiar with the names of New York City's resident superheroes, she would have been able to recognize him.

 _You probably don't want Tony's strongest_ , he signs, looking greatly amused by her words to the bartender. _It'll knock you on your ass._

If the situation had been any different, Maya would have been curious as to why an Avenger knows sign language. His motions are so fluid and quick, his hands forming the signs in a distinct New York accent like its second nature to him, so he's obviously comfortable with ASL. But she hasn't heard of any of the Avengers being deaf.

As it is, she rolls her eyes with a scoff.

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" she asks.

Clint holds his hands up in surrender before signing, _Sorry. Just thought you'd want to know_. He offers her a hand as he signs with his left, _C-L-I-N-T-B-A-R-T-O-N._

"I know who you are," she tells him, but she still takes his hand.

The skin of his palm isn't quite coarse, but it's labor-worn. And his arms are sculpted by more than just training and archery. He's obviously used to hard labor. There is a subtle strength to the way he holds her hand, though he doesn't outright squeeze, and she returns the gesture. His smile broadens at her grip.

 _No name?_

"Just because everyone knows your name, doesn't mean I'd like the same," she says with a smile, though it's more akin to bearing her teeth than a genuine smile.

The bartender chooses that time to return, placing a glass down in front of her and opening a bottle of white whiskey. Before he can pour it, she takes the bottle from his hands, tossing him the glass in the same second. She takes a long swig before he can protest. She wrinkles her nose at the overpowering taste of sweet corn, but he doesn't complain as she forces the burning liquid down.

 _Practically moonshine, isn't it?_

"It's rough," she admits. "But since when does anyone drink for the flavor?"

Clint gives what looks like a mix between a bark and a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling to reveal dozens of smile lines, before he signs, _You sound like Tony._

"I'll take that as a compliment," she tells him, taking another, smaller sip this time. "You have a very good grasp of ASL."

He shrugs, turning his head pulling something out of his ear, holding it in his open palm. It's so small, she hadn't been able to see it before. It's a tiny hearing aid. He slips it back in the second she gets a good look at it, giving a shrug as he taps his ear.

"Before Tony made these for me, and before S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me a more common pair, ASL was all I really had," Clint explains. "I can't hear unless you shout really loud, and even then it's a fifty-fifty chance of me reading someone's lips properly. You seem better at it than me. And your pronunciation is pretty impressive. Born deaf?"

"Yeah. I used to come home and repeat words over and over into the mirror until my jaw hurt and my throat was hoarse. At the end of the night, I'd say them to the man who raised me and, if he told me they didn't sound right, I'd start all over the next day," she confides. "But I still struggle sometimes. And I apparently won't ever get rid of the accent."

"Don't bother trying," he says, a playful glint in his funny-colored eyes. "It sounds good with your voice."

She stares at him, trying her best to get a read on him. What could he possibly want from her? Unless, she thinks with a revelation that hits her like a blow to the stomach, he's complimenting her simply for the sake of doing so. There's certainly an unmistakable streak of quiet admiration in his expression. But it's unrealistic to think so. It doesn't stop her from smiling at his words.

She raises the bottle towards him, a smirk tugging at her lips, and says, "To fighting for something the rest of the world was given."

"I'll drink to that," he replies, tapping the rim of his glass against the neck of the bottle.

As she puts the bottle down again, she says, "Maya Lopez."

Clint looks up, then shakes his head and signs, _What?_

"My name," she clarifies.

"Oh. Pleasure to meet you," he says. "You here alone?"

His lips form around the words carefully, not too fast like most but not so slow as those who think 'deaf' means 'slow', and she's surprised that she can read more of what he's saying than she can with most others. It strikes her then that he has only spoken aloud to her when he knows he has her full attention. The realization makes her smile, as it's the most thoughtful thing anyone outside her circle of acquaintances has ever done for her.

"If you must know, I was supposed to have a date. It seems he's running late - or he's stood me up. He isn't fond of social outings."

There's a wry sort of edge to his grin as he says, "Beautiful woman like you, I doubt he's standing you up."

"What about you?" she asks. "No date for tonight? Not even the infamous Black Widow? The world is convinced you two are an item. Though she doesn't seem to be here tonight."

If Maya had to guess, she would have said that Clint had been trying not to choke. When he manages to regain his composure, shaking his head as he cards his fingers through his hair, he looks up at her with a smile.

"I'm gonna plead the fifth with that one," he answers.

"Guess I can't blame you," she laughs. "I wouldn't want my private life made public, either."

"Then you're definitely in the wrong place," he replies with a wink. "So, your date know you flirt with Avengers when he's not around?"

Maya can't bite back a laugh at that, "You were the one who said I was beautiful, Mr. Barton."

"And you were the one checking me out, Ms. Lopez," he counters. "Shamelessly, too, I thought."

"Why feel ashamed of what you like?" she asks, winking at him over the whiskey bottle before taking another swig. "Besides, he and I have an open relationship."

Clint raises his eyebrows at that, but only signs, _Polyamorous or just really into threesomes?_

"Poly," she tells him. "What about you?"

 _I've been known to experiment_ , he signs with a wry smirk that she nearly misses as he finishes his glass. _As long as you're just waiting here, do you think I'd have a chance if I asked you for a dance?_

"I don't dance."

"Strange. I was under the impression that you were quite the skilled contemporary and interpretative dancer, and a gifted ballerina, if the rumors can be believed," he says.

"You're very well-informed."

Clint shrugs, "Just part of the job. So is that a no to the dance, then?"

Maya can't help but think it over. He's maybe eight or ten years older than her, just a couple of inches taller, attractive in an unconventional sort of way, and the only one blithe enough to come to this party dressed in jeans and a graphic tee. But seeking this much attention from an Avenger is dangerous, particularly when he is one of the few people who could actually uncover what she really is. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once. And Maya loves it.

Normally, if she was thinking of picking up another partner, she would talk it over with Anatoly. But it's just a dance he's asked for. It's an innocent enough request, despite the spark in his eyes that promises something dirty and fun and possibly illegal in the state of New York. He's been incredibly thoughtful, walking the line that makes him flirty without being raunchy, and the champagne and whiskey doesn't help matters.

Before she can come up with an answer, a hand falls gently onto her shoulder. Both she and Clint turn to look at the person who's interrupted them, Maya going so far as to grab his wrist out of pure instinct, only to be met with familiar horn-rimmed glasses and disdainful expression. Of all the emotions that run through her head at that moment, only one coherent thought seems to form when she looks into the pale green eyes.

This is not who's supposed to be here.

Wesley smiles broadly, the expression looking foreign and wrong on his face, as he says, "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart."

He gently pulls his hand from her grip, moving it to snake around her waist in an oddly comfortable motion, and presses a peck to her cheek. It is only because she's staring at him that she manages to make sense out of most of what he says to Clint.

"You must be the famous Hawkeye. It's a pleasure to meet you?"

He offers his hand to Clint, an almost reverent expression on his face. Maya's eyes turn to Clint, her mind still trying to come up with any number of reasons how and why Wesley is at her side, and she half expects the Avenger to not buy it. But Clint composes himself quickly and shakes Wesley's hand with a friendly smile.

"Pleasure's mine," he says. "I take it your Maya's wayward date."

Whatever name Wesley offers, Maya cannot decipher it, but she knows enough to recognize that its syllables don't match his real one. He then turns to her, a wince tugging his features into an odd expression. Everything about this Wesley seems wrong.

"Sorry I'm late," he says. "A client called in with some last minute changes and had the whole office scrambling to make up for the setbacks it created. Hope you don't mind."

Maya may not have a clue what exactly is going on, but she's not so stupid as to pass up on an inconspicuous story that could get her out of the confusion. So instead of voicing her irritation at both Wesley's interruption and Anatoly's disappearance, she schools her features into a mildly frustrated expression with an underlying long-suffering edge, slipping into the character Wesley's created as easily as if it were a coat.

"You could have let me know, darling," she says, tilting her head as if admonishing a child. "I was worried you'd forgotten."

"I'm glad you were entertained in my absence."

Clint nods as if in apology, "Trust me, it was my pleasure."

A muscle in Wesley's jaw jumps and Maya has to fight the smile that threatens to break her character as she realizes just what shadows flitted through the usually impassive green eyes. Instead, she finishes the last swig of whiskey, placing the bottle down on the counter before sliding off the stool with ease. Regardless of how much she's had to drink, she will always retain some sense of grace about her.

"Well, it looks as though I should get going," she says to Clint. "It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Barton."

"Likewise, Ms. Lopez."

She can feel his eyes on her the whole time she and Wesley walk away. But she doesn't have long to linger on why, as Wesley is tapping her waist to get her attention within seconds. The mask of the hard-working boyfriend is still in place, but his eyes give himself away, creating the odd illusion of a soft man with cold eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," she replies. "How did you find me?"

Wesley grimaces, "Believe me, it wasn't easy."

"Did your employer send you?"

"No," he says, and he's telling the truth. "And we shouldn't discuss this here. There's a car waiting downstairs. I take it you won't mind leaving early?"

Maya shakes her head, "It was rather boring before, anyway."

She wants to press for more answers, but she knows she won't get any so long as they're in the Tower. Wesley must have heard the rumors, same as she had though she is not so quick to believe them, that Stark's AI ran sophisticated surveillance during all of his parties. And the last thing they need is for Wilson's name to pop up on the billionaire superhero's records. So she remains quiet, nodding in both thanks and farewell to Pepper Potts' as she catches sight of her across the room, and follows Wesley to the elevator. Anatoly isn't likely to show up at this point, anyway.


	11. Chapter Ten

_**Okay, just a quick note this time: the MCU wiki now states that Season 1 occurred in early February. That is utterly ridiculous. It makes no sense as far as costuming on the set, given that NYC's February is fucking cold. So, for clarification, this story has been moved from mid-March and will end in early April (putting it roughly between chapter 3-6 of**_ **Alchemist** _ **) because that just makes more sense. I may or may not be incorporating Season 2 in the next book, but that's up for debate right now. I'm not a big fan of the whole evil ninjas storyline. The Punisher arc? Now that I might use.**_

* * *

Maya sits in the seat opposite of Wesley in the car, waiting for him to stop looking out the window as if he's worried he'll find the whole of the Avengers team coming after them. It frustrates her, adding to her irritation at Anatoly for not showing up, that he felt the need to interrupt what had been an interesting conversation and opportunity to analyze a potential enemy.

"Do you want to tell me what you thought you were doing?" she asks, growing impatient with waiting.

He glances at her, looking a bit distracted as he messily signs, _You look beautiful_.

"Yes, thank you for the compliment," she snaps. "Now are you going to answer the question?"

"What?" he asks, finally taking the time to meet her eyes for longer than a second.

"What were you doing here tonight? And how did you get into a Stark party uninvited, anyway."

"You underestimate what I'm capable of," he says with a smirk. "As for what I was doing there in the first place, something came up and I was worried that you might be in danger. If I had known you were getting friendly with an Avenger, I would have driven faster."

Maya can't help herself. Her lips tug upward into a smirk as she says, "Is that jealousy I see, Wesley? You'd better be careful, or I might start to think you're in love with me."

"I'm aromantic."

He says it so quickly, without even missing a beat, that Maya has to think over the two words before they process entirely. She still doesn't come up with a satisfactory explanation for what he means.

"You're what?"

"Aromantic," he repeats, watching her carefully, his body language defensive. "It means I don't feel romantic attraction, that I don't fall in love."

She blinks at him, trying to put together the words that might convey that she a bit confused towards such a concept, but wants to understand. Instead, what comes out is a question that's even too personal in her own mind.

"So…do you not sleep with people then or…?"

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, as though he's heard this question before, "I'm not asexual, I do feel physical attraction towards others, I've just never felt romantic attraction - the need for relationships beyond the occasional friendship. Or a few sexual relationships."

Okay. Maya can justify that much in her mind. She's never heard a specific term for it, but she supposes that it's not a far stretch to imagine in existence. But there is still something that bothers her about the whole exchange.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Your joke makes me uncomfortable," he explains, still looking as though he's waiting for her to attack him. "I would prefer it if you would refrain from saying anything similar, and it's much easier to explain why if I tell you."

Maya nods, "Alright."

" 'Alright'?"

She frowns at him, "Yes. 'Alright'. Is there something wrong with that?"

He shrugs, "I expected something more…disbelieving."

"Why?"

Wesley looks vaguely uncomfortable again, but he doesn't hesitate for long before saying, "I'm not used to people understanding it immediately, much less accepting it so easily."

It's Maya's turn to shrug as she says, "Before I came back here, I saw things that don't even warrant belief - things that cannot be justified by a rational explanation. Your orientation, aromanticism, it's not so difficult to believe. It's actually rather simple."

He watches her in interest for a minute before tilting his head down with a laugh that shakes his shoulders and that genuine smile that he so rarely gives. Maya doesn't take her eyes off him, taking in every detail of that smile. He's not attractive in the conventional sense, actually rather funny looking if she's honest, but there's something about his trust in her, in the way he lets down his guard around her more and more. And Maya has always had bit of a thing for people with an arrogant streak. It made things entertaining.

"What's so funny?" she asks.

He looks up at here once more, his pale green eyes open in a way she's never seen before, as he says, "You never cease to amaze me, Ms. Lopez."

Maya doesn't know how to respond to that. Instead, she looks out the window, noticing that they're heading to her new apartment. She shakes her head at the sight of the familiar streets.

"Not home."

When she turns back to him, he's staring at her in confused silence.

"I need to speak to Anatoly," she explains.

"Anatoly-?"

"He was supposed to be at the gala with me," she says. "I'm not exactly pleased that he didn't show up."

Wesley's confusion has transformed into an amusing mix of disbelief and irritation.

"You were going to take that uncouth troglodyte to a Stark gala?"

Maya raises her eyebrows at him, "I don't speak to you to have you criticize my choice in partners, Wesley. Just tell the driver to head to 10th and 31st."

Wesley shakes his head in a disdainful sort of way, but does as she's told him. He also refrains from speaking to her the rest of the trip. It makes the ride long and tedious, and she can practically feel his irritation at her interest in Anatoly rolling off of him like waves on a beach, but she also doesn't mind the lack of distraction. It allows her to get her thoughts in order as to what she's going to say when she gets to Anatoly's apartment.

She's not as angry as she had been before. There are a number of instances which could have delayed him, particularly in his line of business, but he could at least have had the good sense to text her. That's the real reason she's still a bit irritated.

It doesn't take long for the driver to reach the corner of 10th and 31st, and Wesley makes it fairly clear that he doesn't intend on waiting around to pick her up later. She makes sure he's turned the corner before turning around and heading in the opposite direction. She may trust him, may let him in on a few secrets of hers, but she doesn't intend on letting him know exactly where the Ranskahovs live.

The apartment block Anatoly lives in isn't far from the intersection and she knows the city well enough that she's the door. Rather than buzzing his apartment, she hits the one right below it, belonging to Mrs. Kolisnyk. Mrs. Kolisnyk was one of the first people Maya had met in the early days of her relationship with Anatoly. Four doors down, she was the most overbearingly well-intentioned woman Maya had ever met. She was a quick gossip, acutely intuitive, and constantly offering others dinner or desert. The woman was also surprisingly quick for her age.

"Hi, Ms. Kolisnyk," she says amiably, hoping she hasn't interrupted the woman. "It's Maya. Could you let me in? I have something for Tolya, but I want it to be a surprise."

She tries the door the next second, calling back a thank you as she walks through. The elevator opens within a couple of seconds of her pressing the call button, likely thanks to the late hour, and Mrs. Kolisnyk is waiting for her when she gets to his floor. Her white hair is pulled back in an elegant bun, allowing her to fully scrutinize Maya.

"Ah," she seems to say. "It's that sort of something. You look lovely, dear. I remember Maksim that sort of surprise. He'd come home exhausted after work, I'd come in - mind you, I was wearing a little less than you-"

Maya looks away with raised eyebrows, trying to hide her smile at the woman's story. Granted, she has done similar for Anatoly, but this certainly isn't one of those moments. And she'd rather not hear all the details of others' private lives.

"If you'll excuse me," she says, hoping enough time has passed, "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

She throws in a wink for good measure, as if letting Mrs. Kolisnyk in on a secret. The elderly woman grins broadly, winking back with an understanding nod. She says something, the words lost to Maya as she turns around, as she heads back towards her door.

Waiting until after she shut the door, Maya drops the amiable facade and makes her way to Anatoly's door. She gives it a few short raps, putting more force behind the beats than necessary, and waits with her arms crossed. She can feel his footsteps through the rickety wooden flooring as he approaches. He hesitates, no doubt seeing her through the peephole, before opening the door.

Her anger drains out of her at the sight of him and she drops her arms.

"The fuck happened to you?"

He looks rough. A few of the top buttons on his shirt have been ripped off and there's a cut along the top shoulder of his jacket. Running along the right side of his face, spanning from just below his temple to the edge of his cheekbone, is a bruise in an ugly bluish-purple hue. Dried blood runs down the other side of his face, apparently coming from a large cut across his forehead. It's already half dried. There's another cut across the bridge of his nose and at the very corner of his lips, both much smaller.

"Black Mask," he says, opening the door wide for her to step in.

She walks into his apartment, pulling off her heels as she does, "You didn't show up to the gala."

He winces as he shuts the door, more out of realization than pain, and he turns to her when he says, "Yes. I am sorry. It was to be…a quick check before the _moodak_ came. I should have said."

There is a genuine regret in his expression and Maya finds she can't stay mad at him when he looks like someone handed him his own ass not that long ago. She steps into his kitchenette, pulling a dishrag out of the cabinets and running it under the warm water.

"Sit," she tells him, grabbing a bowl and filling it in the sink.

He does as she asks, more collapsing onto the couch than sitting, and watches her as she brings the bowl and rag over with her. She places them on the coffee table, taking a seat on it so that she's directly across from him, and motions for him to lean in a bit. She places her hand against his right cheek, being careful not to brush against the bruise. He places his hand over hers and turns his face towards the touch, pressing a kiss against the center of her palm, his eyes closed as he breathes in a contented sigh.

"Will you please look this way," she says, grabbing the dishcloth with her free hand.

When he does as she asks, she dabs the cloth against the drying blood on his face. She's hyperaware of his eyes on her as she wipes away the blood, dipping the cloth into the bowl every so often and wringing it out to start all over, but she doesn't meet his gaze.

"My father isn't happy about your productivity lately," she tells him. "Is this why you're short so often now?"

He nods slowly, his expression soft and open. She meets his gaze at last, letting the last of her masks slip away, so that he can see the same trust he's offering her. He knows her darkness like no one else, her drives and her demons and her desires. And she knows his, despite how infrequently he speaks of them. She supposes its this that prompts her to warn him.

"He's not pleased. You're putting his plans behind schedule, making him impatient. I could help you, if you want."

" _Nyet_."

"You've seen me fight," she points out. "You know I can handle myself. He won't be pleased if this isn't put to an end quickly. You're not safe if this-"

She goes silent as he grabs her wrist gently, his intention of speaking clear in his eyes. He lets his fingers trail down to grasp her hands, the familiar calloused touch warm against her hand, and he dropped his gaze down to their hands for just a second before he looked up again.

"Come to Moscow with me."

"Moscow?" she repeats, making it clear that she isn't certain that she's read his lips clearly.

"Yes, Moscow," he says. "We've become blind by this world and its riches, Volodya and I. Perhaps is time to start again."

She eyes him carefully, uncertain of what to say to that. She has considered them to be close for a very long time but, in their lives, she had expected him to go off on his own if his safety was compromised. And yet here he was, asking her to come with him.

"And you want me to come with you and Vladimir to Moscow?" she clarifies.

"I don't want to leave without you," he tells her. "But, if you don't want to go, I will."

And then he does something that catches her entirely off guard. When he knows he has her full attention, he leans back and begins to sign. He points a finger to himself, then brings his palms together in an X, twisting them and making an X across his chest with closed fists before pointing at her. Maya stares at him in shock as she realizes what he's just said.

 _I've fallen in love with you._

Her lips part as she tries to find something to say. He smiles at her, watching as the words escape her, and begins to speak again.

"Come with me," he says, lacing his fingers through hers once more. "We could leave this all - business, Fisk, Black Mask. It would not matter anymore."

"What would we even do in Moscow?"

"Anything. What you want to do, I will. Drugs, transport, death. You choose."

She shakes her head in disbelief at the earnest expression on his face, looking at him as though he's lost his mind. It doesn't seem to dissuade him. He still looks as though he truly believes it, believes they can just run away to Russia and start over, and believes the only problem they face is talking her into it.

"Come with me," he repeats. "We will create our own empire and live like kings."

She wants it. God, does she want to say yes. But she knows she can't leave Hell's Kitchen. Not because she's afraid, not because she doesn't love him enough to do so, not even because it would mean leaving Fisk. She can't leave because it would mean failing her real father.

There have been no real leads in years and sometimes she feels like she'll never find the Shadowman, but she can't just give up. It's all she had for the longest time, back when she felt weak and alone, just the promise Fisk made of helping her prepare and helping her find the bastard. To leave now, when she was finally ready, would be the same as telling her father that she'd failed.

She couldn't leave. Not yet.

"The last time you lived like kings in Moscow, you and Vladimir ended up in Siberia," she points out. "No one can do that to you here. Between Owlsley and my father, we're in perfect anonymity. If you'd just let me help, we could be safe."

The second she says it, his elation slips away. He looks as though she's hit him. No, she thinks, that isn't right. She saw his expression the one time she decked him. He looks as though she's sold him out. Guilt gnaws at her stomach, reminding her of her own uncertainty, and she feels herself cave.

"Tell you what," she says, moving to straddle his lap with an apologetic smile. "If you and Vladimir can't finish this up within the next couple days, we'll go to Moscow. But wait a little, try to fix this, and we'll see what happens."

"If this doesn't, we leave?" he asks, his hands on her hips as he pulls her closer.

"In a heartbeat," she assures him.

He smiles again, a mix of relief and excitement clear in his eyes, and she can't help but return the gesture. She doesn't want to tell him that it's her father's murderer who keeps her from saying yes. They both know she could pack up her facsimile of a life and disappear, as that's how she has built her life to be. The Maya Lopez presented to the world in general was nothing more than a hollow puppet. But to tell him the truth would be to put that burden on him. And she doesn't want to make him feel as though he has anymore to help with.

So she cups his face in her hands and leans down to kiss him, content to just enjoy the peace of that one moment. They can worry about the future tomorrow.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Maya stands before the door of an old warehouse by Pier 81, waiting as she knocks on the metal. A slat in the metal slides to the side, revealing a pair of eyes that glance over her in interest, and she nods in greeting. The slat closes once more and the door swings inward.

"Maya Lopez," the man says, nodding in greeting.

"Matsu'o Tsurayaba," she responds. "It's been a long time."

He closes the door, sliding the three-inch bolt into place, before he turns to her and says, "It has."

They stand before each other, unmoving and silent, until Matsu'o breaks into a smile and they both embrace with a laugh. He pulls back a second later, getting a better look at her as she does the same.

"I didn't know you were here," she says. "Last I heard, you were in South America. Brazil, I think."

He nods, "I requested a transfer after I heard you had returned to your home. You extended your training much longer than I expected."

"It wasn't extended," she points out. "I started much later than you did. Remember?"

"How could I forget?"

Maya shrugs, shooting him a wry grin, "Because your head's too hard for anything to get through for long."

"You would know," he says, returning her grin.

He gestures towards a spot on his forehead, the exact place where he has a scar from one of their sparring matches. It had been fairly late in her training, when she had finally found a technique that worked for her, and the match had been a brutal test of her progress. They had nearly killed each other in the adrenaline high. And, even after being pitted against each other for years, they could never hate each other.

"So what brings you to our door?"

She walks with him into the building, nodding at a few of the Yakuza she recognizes. As far as Fisk knows, she has no contact with them besides the few times she's met with Nobu on his behalf, but she knows some of them very well. Her time in the Hand's Fukuoka base is her personal business and she doesn't plan to tell Fisk any time soon. As far as he knows, she spent her time in Japan studying art history and martial arts. It's not, strictly speaking, a lie.

She pulls a newspaper clipping from her messenger bag, handing it to him as she says, "What do you know about the man in the black mask?"

Matsu'o peers down at the blurry photo of the man in black before handing it back to her, "The press is calling him 'The Devil of Hell's Kitchen'. Pretty accurate, too. Bastard pops up wherever there's a deal, beats the shit out of both parties, then disappears without a trace. There's not much I can give you."

"I know he's using the roofs and fire escapes to get around," she says, replacing the photo in her bag. "It's how I get away without being noticed. But I need more than that. Something, anything, even if it's just a rumor."

Matsu'o leads her into a room separate from the majority of the Yakuza, closing and locking the door the second she walks through it. He gestures towards a free chair and leans against the wall across from her.

"There is this one thing I've heard," he says, rubbing his forehead anxiously. "Izanagi came back one night from a deal gone sour, half dead on his feet. Three men were sent with him, four more from the other benefactor. He was the only one who got away.

"He was incoherent the first day. Babbled about devils and masks and abilities. I was watching him a couple nights after, when he finally came back to us, and he said something."

He looks away, his eyes only moving instead of his whole face, a gesture he's grown used to out of force to habit when speaking with her.

Maya watches him as he falters, no doubt second-guessing his decision to tell her this, and she get up to put a hand on his shoulder, "What did he tell you, Matsu'o?"

He meets her eyes, dark brown tinged with a fear she has never seen in his expression before, as he answers.

"Izanagi said that he knew when the others were lying," he says quietly. "That he said he could hear their heartbeats."

Maya deliberates over that before asking, "And your man, Izanagi, he's sure he heard correctly?"

Matsu'o nods, "I would trust him with my life."

This changes the game. She knows very well, the second that he said it, that he's changed the game. Another criminal on the streets, even one who thinks he's a hero, is someone Maya can handle. She's been around them enough to speak their languages fluently, to be able to slip into their shadows just as quickly as she can slip into the skin of a young debutante. But being able to hear a heartbeat isn't common.

It makes the Man in Black one of the enhanced. She doesn't have any special powers, any enhanced abilities or extraterrestrial gifts. Her strength lies in her strength, her tenacity, her perceptivity, and her focus. She knows what she can and can't do. And she knows for a fact that she can't take on an enhanced without a little help.

"How's the serum coming along?"

Matsu'o's eyes snap up to her's, shock and fear clear in his expression, "Why do you need to know?"

She gives him a disbelieving look, "You know why."

"It's too dangerous," he says with a shake of his head. "It hasn't even been tested."

"I don't care. There's something personal I need to take care of, and I can't do it without that serum."

"And it involves taking on the Black Mask?" he hisses. "Maya, this man is dangerous."

Within a split second, she pulls out one of her little stiletto switchblades and throws it in his general direction. It lodges itself in the wood right beside his head, the blade touching his skin without slicing into it, but he doesn't flinch. He's been trained better than that.

She walks up to him slowly, their eyes never turning away from each other as she jerks the knife from the wall, "So am I."

When she moves to turn away, he places his hand on her shoulder. He waits until she turns around to speak again.

"Why is this so important to you?"

She pulls his hand off her shoulder with a sigh, "He hurt someone I care about and he jeopardizes their safety. And if no one else is up to the challenge, I might as well take care of him myself. But if what you say is true, if he's enhanced, I need that serum."

"You'd have to speak to Nobu about it."

"And you know he'd say yes," she points out. "Why are you being so obstinate?"

"You're my friend, Maya. I don't want you to get hurt."

"You and I don't have to worry about getting hurt. The Hand makes sure of that."

He shakes his head, a humorless smile on his face, "That doesn't mean you should go out of your way to find dangerous situations."

"Tell me what I need to do," she says.

His shoulders rise and fall, his lips parting in what she guesses is a sigh of resignation, "I'm not letting you take it. Not yet. Let it be a last resort. Please."

She shakes her head, knowing now that he will never give in. For some reason she can't fathom, and she won't buy his concern as the sole reason behind it, he wants to keep her away from the serum. Matsu'o has always been a stubborn bastard, even when they were younger. There's nothing she can say to make her case.

So Maya shakes her head dismissively and heads for the door, "It was a pleasure seeing you again, Matsu'o."

She's unlocked the door and is turning the handle when his fingers close around hers. She looks up to meet his gaze, noting the odd mixture of sadness and frustration in his eyes, but it's gone the second he starts smiling.

"Spar with me," he suggests, continuing when his words earn him a questioning look. "For old time's sake."

She takes a minute to process the sudden change in topic, not missing how swiftly he shifted the mood between them, before nodding, "Fine."

And then he's smiling broadly. He lets over her fingers slip out from beneath his and pulls the door open with a gesture for her to leave first. She waits for him to exit the room and lead her to the sparring rooms within the warehouse. He takes her through several rooms and up three flights of stairs until he brings her to an open room.

There are no walls to divide the space, no windows left uncovered for people to see in. It's little more than a large room with several square mats laid out three feet apart. But it's familiar and it's quiet, the perfect place to practice methods and forms which are frowned upon by the general public.

"Maybe I ought to get rid of my gym membership," she says with a smirk, dropping her messenger bag at the corner of the center mat. "Just come here."

Matsu'o waits until he's locked the door and can look at her fully to say, "You know you're always welcome here."

She shrugs off her jacket, letting it fall next to her bag as she looks around, "Do you have anything to wrap my hands with?"

He walks over to one of the few benches pressed against the walls, pulling something black and folded up from beneath them. She can see the way his stance shifts, his gait smoother and much quicker than most normal people, as he mentally switches from friendly conversation to fighter in a ring. When he tosses one of the bundles to her, she makes a similar shift. He smirks at how quickly she catches it.

"Since when do you wrap your hands?"

"Since I started playing piano for a living."

She lets the bundle unroll, revealing it to be loose-fitting pants roughly her size. He doesn't turn away when she strips down, nor do his eyes stray from her face until he begins to do the same, as they've both seen all of each other before. There is no such thing as modesty in the Hand. It would make things too difficult when in a fight, particularly if someone needed a quick medical fix.

"We don't use boxing tape," he tells her when he's straightened up. "You'll just have to be careful."

She smirks, "Will do."

He raises an eyebrow when she doesn't put her shirt back on, leaving her in just her bra and the pants he gave her, but he doesn't comment on it. He simply follows suit and pulls off his shirt before stepping onto the mat. Every step he takes to circle her, she mirrors perfectly. She's already memorized the way he walks, the angle at which he puts his foot down, the way he holds his shoulders. She could mimic him entirely already. The gesture makes his smile broaden and his shoulders shake in a laugh.

"Still playing the same games, Jorōgumo?"

He lunges forward, his fists driving through the air a second too late to actually hit her as she spins away from the blow.

"I always hated that name."

He won't attack her too often like most others would. He knows her too well, knows she likes to wait out her opponents, likes to let them wear themselves down so it's easier to take them out. He'll hold himself back just enough to keep from getting hurt.

So she goes into the offensive.

The second he runs towards her, she kneels a few inches, slamming the top of her head into his chin. The impact sets him reeling, but she doesn't waste her time, doesn't let him get his bearings. Her first rams into his stomach and she uses the momentum of him keeling forward to flip him over.

His hand is suddenly in her hair. Pain arches through her skull, the world turning sideways, and she hits the mat harder than she intends to. He's on top of her in minutes, straddling her hips and pinning her hands above her head.

"You're really planning to go after the Black Mask?" he asks her.

She lifts her legs up in his distraction, thanking his inattention for allowing him to sit in such a way that gives her more freedom of movement, and locks her legs around his throat. It's painful and stretches her muscles too far, but he bucks back in surprise, allowing her to drag him off the rest of the way. It takes less than a minute for her to pin him down.

"I can't afford not to."


	13. Chapter Twelve

_**This isn't a filler, but actually really important in the grand scheme of things. I know I say that a lot, but it's true. Hope you all enjoy!**_

* * *

Something is vibrating.

It's the only thought that goes through Maya's mind as she wakes up. She doesn't think she's been sleeping that long, the long sparring session, which had becomes several consecutive matches, that she just about collapsed into her bed when she got home. She isn't rested and she's just about ready to murder whoever is waking her now.

She fumbles through the sheets, sleep making her brain foggier than she'd like, and she finally finds her phone halfway across the mattress. The screen's too bright when she turns it over, making her flinch as her eyes slowly adjust. There's a text displayed on the screen and she groans as she makes out the name above it and the time at the top.

 **Are you home?**

Maya pushes the covers off, not even bothering to put any more clothes on than the tank top and panties she's wearing, and stomps into the living room. It doesn't take long for her to reach the front door and throw it open. Wesley looks up from his cellphone, his eyebrows raising at the sight of her, and she crosses her arms at him.

"It's midnight," she snaps. "What the fuck do you want?"

He looks a bit taken aback, an odd expression she's never seen on his face before, "I didn't realize that was late for you."

She shakes her head, "It's been a long day."

They stand there opposite of each other, neither saying anything for a good couple of minutes. When Maya motions for him to speak, he almost seems to jolt as though shocked back to reality. It makes her wonder what's going on. Something has happened, that much she knows, because she's never seen him this jumpy before.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no syllables form on his lips before he shuts it again. Her frustration is beginning to melt away as his uncharacteristic behavior worries her. But then it's gone and he schools his expression into the usual mask of composure.

"I was wondering if you might want to go out."

She blinks at him, wondering if she's read his lips wrong, "Out?"

"Out," he repeats, signing the individual letters. "To get breakfast."

Maya glances around her apartment, beginning to wonder if she's awake at all or just having a very odd dream. Neither make any sense.

"At midnight?"

When he doesn't say anything, she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb, "Nothing you're going to like is open at this time of night. So what the hell are you really doing here?"

He turns away when she looks up and something catches her eye. She closes the distance between them in a heartbeat, taking only a second to inspect the spots on his collar before tugging it out of the way. Wesley starts at the second movement, starting to pull away, but she grabs his arm keep him from moving too far. When he stops trying to get away, she brushes her fingertips over the spots on his skin.

It's blood. Halfway dried, still sticky to the touch, and speckled across the right side of his throat and collar. She looks closer and there's some on his suit coat, too. The fabric is too dark for her to have noticed at a glance before. She moves to push some of his meticulously combed hair back, searching for anywhere that the blood might be coming from. She can feel his gel coating her fingertips as she does.

He grabs her wrist suddenly, his grasp gentle and loose to keep from provoking her, and he turns to her to say, "It isn't mine."

"Who's is it?"

Instead of answering, he nods towards the door, "May I come in?"

She pulls her hands away from his skin, moving to let him into the apartment, and closes the door behind him. He stands in the middle of the sitting room as though he's not sure what to do. It's an odd expression on him, especially when he usually looks so self-assured.

"Is Wilson not here?" she asks.

Wesley shakes his head, signing as he says, "The last of the furniture has been moved into his new suite. He asked to be dropped off there."

Maya brushes a few strands of hair out of her face as the two stand awkwardly. Neither of them know how to respond to the other right now, and Maya doesn't precisely feel at ease with the odd change of mood. There's usually an ease to their conversations, all sharp remarks and witty rejoinders, but an underlying sense of amusement. It's an odd sense of camaraderie that's grown between them. This is something entirely different and it puts her on edge.

"You never answered my question," she points out.

He shakes his head, making his words almost impossible to decipher, and he does something she's never seen him do before. He tugs his tie loose, ruining the flawless charade he's kept up since they first met. It doesn't make her feel any better about the situation.

He looks at her analytically, as if he's determining how much of Wilson's affairs he can safely tell her without putting himself at risk, instead of answering. There's something unreadable in his eyes, like there's something he wants to tell her but isn't. And then his shoulders shift. A soft rise and fall, almost like the beginnings of a shrug that he gave up on, and his lips part in what she would guess is a sigh.

"It was just a business proposition gone wrong."

She nods in understanding, knowing he can't tell her that much more, so she simply asks, "Are you okay?"

He nods slowly, as if he has to take a minute to verify that he is before he can answer. She gestures for him to sit down on the couch, turning away to the kitchen, and digs through the cabinets to pull out her macchinetta and her tin of Café Bustelo. Filling the macchinetta has become a simple ritual, a thoughtless process of movements that allows her to think about what Wesley is doing rather than her actions.

She knows Wesley doesn't normally kill people. He's not made for a fight, though she's seen him in the shooting ranges before. He knows his way around a handgun, which makes her wonder what exactly he did in his spare time as a teenager, but she knows he can't hold his own in hand-to-hand. So if he's been in a negotiation that went wrong, he either had someone with him or he shot someone at point blank range for that blood splatter.

But Wesley's not left-handed.

Maybe it really went south, she supposes, and he lost hold of the gun for an instant. She can run a dozen different scenarios in her head as to what might have happened. Before she can think too hard on it, his hand falls on her arm, his grip just as soft as earlier. She turns to meet his eyes.

There's that look again. Some emotion across his face that she can't read, that flickers in and out of existence.

"You came here to tell me something."

It stays longer in his pale eyes when she says that. So he's not telling her something, something that he initially came to tell her. But why the sudden change of mind? Is it something to do with the negotiations? Or something else entirely? She's halfway through working out the reasons why he might not be able to tell her something when his hand comes up to rest beneath her chin, tilting her face. And then his lips are on hers.

 _Oh…_

There's something tentative about his kiss, as though he's saying without words that it's her choice how far he can go, but also something very confident about it. She's hyperaware now of the soft smell of an expensive cologne he wears and the smooth feel of the worsted wool his suit. He hasn't shaved since the day before, she would guess, and there's just the beginnings of stubble. It's not a sensation she's used to.

She pulls away from him a few seconds later, narrowing her eyes at him, "I thought you were aromantic."

"Not asexual," he responds, his face just far enough so she can read his lips. "And I've been wanting to do this for a while. There was always something about you…something infuriating, but inescapable. You've become quite the problem for me, Ms. Lopez."

"Funny," she remarks. "I've thought the same about you."

The corners of his lips quirk up in an smug grin and she fights the urge to take his bottom lip between her teeth, to taste his blood on her tongue. She wants to wipe that smugness from his expression, even if that means replacing it with wordless gasps and pupils blown wide. Instead, she raises her face jauntily, raising her eyebrows at him, and busies her hands by straightening the lapels of his coat.

"But I have a lover, Wesley. You know that."

"I know you see others from time to time," he counters.

She grins, wondering when he found the time to do such research, "It seems you know quite a bit."

If she weren't deaf, Maya gets the sense that he would lean forward and whisper in her ear. But he's smarter than that.

"That would be my job, yes."

She places her palm flat against his chest, gently pushing him back a step. There's something that flares in his eyes, in the way that he licks his lips, that catches her attention. She has to fight back a smirk as she realizes exactly what it is. It would seem Wesley rather likes it when someone takes control. She mentally files that information away, a promise for something later.

"Well, there are two reasons why we have to wait on this," she tells him.

"Oh?"

"First," she says, holding up a finger lightly against his lips, "I have to discuss this with Anatoly. I'm not unfaithful. And to lie to him, to do this without at least mentioning it to him beforehand, would be cheating. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not disloyal."

His expression doesn't change, but there's a flash of something in his eyes that's there one minute and gone the next. If she doesn't know better, she would have pegged it as jealousy or something similar, but it's gone too quickly for her to work out exactly what it is. He's raising his eyebrows in a politely questioning expression the next second.

"And the second reason for why we're waiting?"

She takes a second to inhale, tasting and smelling the slightly bitter scent on the air, just to make sure she's right. With a playful smile, she reaches past him. The gesture catches him by surprise and he slides back another step so she has room to move. He watches her with a sort of amused surprise as she turns the stove off and pulls the macchinetta off the eyes.

"You're just about making me burn my expresso," she answers, throwing a wink. "And after I went to all this trouble to make us some, too."

And there it is again. The soft closing of his eyes, dark lashes splaying out over high cheekbones, and tilts his head down in an attempt to hide the crooked smile he gets when he's genuinely amused. His shoulders shake in a laugh.

When he looks back up at her, he says, "I don't think I'll ever grow accustomed to your priorities. And I hope I never do."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Frustration is an emotion Maya has grown very used to. Frustration towards her moronic teachers, frustration from the results of the Incident, at her instructors in Fukuoka, frustration at the man in the mask for pulling at the loose threads of her world, at Fisk for being so impatient in his grand plan, at her inability to find the one man she truly wanted dead. She is not, however, used to being quite so frustrated with the Ranskahovs as she is now.

Neither Anatoly nor Vladimir are answering her texts and it's beginning to grate at her already fraying nerves. She has too much on her mind: going after the masked man, kissing Wesley in the dead of night, the serum that Matsu'o seems so determined to keep from her, what the Hand will expect from her in return. So she's going to the Ranskahov's to find out just what the fuck is going on.

She may be patient, but it's run thin today.

It doesn't take particularly long to walk to the closest compound. She could've taken a cab, a quicker route that would have avoided all of the unfriendly eyes peering from the alleys that are dark even in the afternoon sun, but she knows better than to jeopardize their operation. She knows the weight of Anatoly's trust in giving her the locations of their warehouses. Despite what Vladimir might think of her, there are some things even she won't share with Fisk.

She turns down one of the alleys closest to the door, watching as she startles three of the men standing outside with cigarettes. The first one to see her is surprisingly young, perhaps in his early twenties, with a messy crop of mousy brown hair that has a bit too much gel. His grey eyes widen as she flashes a predatory smile, digging his elbow into the side of the man closest to him as he nods as her.

One of them even pushes off the wall to turn and watch her. The middle one, who stands at least half a foot taller than his compatriots, barks off something in Russian that she can't understand. He sets his jaw at a stubborn angle as the youngest crosses his arm, as if trying to look steadfast. She finds it rather adorable. Like the way a chihuahua might try to intimidate a bigger dog.

"I need to speak to your bosses," she announces, not bothering to stop until she's only a couple feet away.

"You shouldn't come here, little girl," says the third, offering a smile that's more shark than charming. "Is dangerous."

She laughs at that, "Why is it everyone is so recently determined to tell me what I'm doing is dangerous?"

He walks forward, the tallest grabbing his shoulder and snapping something at him, but he shrugs off the touch and stops half a foot from Maya. She watches silently as he reaches up, taking a strand of her hair and lightly tugging it. His shoulders shake slightly as he gives a small laugh.

"You have until five to stop touching me before I snap your wrist," she says with a grin. "One."

His smile falls and he glances over his shoulder to say something to the other two.

"Two."

His shoves his hand higher, tangling his fingers into the strands of her hair, and gives it a painful yank. It's a bad move on his part, placing his arm at a perfect angle for her. She almost sighs at how easy he's making it. Her arm wraps under his, pushing at him with all the force she can muster, and thanks her luck that he's not much taller than her.

He topples over like a bag of rocks with the sudden shift of balance, angling his arm ninety degrees. She can feel the bone pop from the joint as she forces her weight onto it. His whole body shakes beneath her, his mouth opening in a scream or gasp, she doesn't care which.

The tall one is yanking her off in the next second and she gives a laugh.

"So I lied," she jokes as she leaps back into his chest, using his momentum to her advantage. "Broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, same result in the end."

She jams her elbow hard into his stomach as he rams into the wall, bringing her foot up into his groin in the next instant. Given the chance, she would have broken a few ribs for good measure, but movement out of the corner of her vision catches her attention. The youngest boy has pulled a little handgun and has it leveled at her head.

"Oh, you really don't want to do that, boy," she says as she raises her hands to her head slowly.

The door behind the boy slams open, revealing a man with black hair and a scar stretching down his throat. His eyes widen at the sight of Maya, familiarity in them, and she offers him a wink. He barks something at the boy until he lowers the gun. She drops her hands and steps away from the two others on the ground.

"Ilya," she greets. "Excellent timing. I need to speak to Anatoly. Or Vladimir, but preferably his brother."

"Forgive Nikolai," he says in response. "He's new."

She looks to the brunette boy, watching as he bows his head and mutters something, "You should be careful with your greens, Ilya. They tend to get nervous easily, and nervous people tend to be trigger-happy."

"Will you be speaking to Vladimir and Anatoly about his actions?"

Maya gives a shrug, "I don't think that's necessary. He knows now."

Ilya shrugs with a disinterested curl of his lips before turning around, motioning for her to follow him inside. She walks past the boy, giving him a playful slap on his shoulder, and after Ilya.

The air inside of the complex is heavy with the scent of cheap liquor and menthol cigarettes. It's mostly empty, the few Russians loitering around inside are mostly playing cards or watching tv as they wait for their next jobs. A few of them give her respectful nods as they see her walk by. Others, those who've made the mistake of cornering her in dark alleys or just generally being disrespectful, turn their eyes away. They know she's important to their boss. And, despite Vladimir being the more openly aggressive one, they know Anatoly can be cruel when he's angry.

Ilya turns to her, signing in a rather sloppy PSE, although she won't fault her for trying, _You're lucky to have come. Usually, Vladimir is at 42nd at this time_.

"Where's Anatoly?"

Ilya stops short, his hand hovering awkwardly over a doorknob. Something flickers in his eyes, a mix of fear and reluctance, but he closes his eyes and shakes his head. The expression is gone when he looks back up at her.

"It's best if you speak to Vladimir."

He opens the door before she can reply, motioning for her to enter, and he doesn't follow her inside. The room's strangely spacious for what's inside. A couple filing cabinets covered in miscellaneous objects, a desk, a little table covered in glasses and matchboxes, and a handful of chairs.

But the floor is clean and the wall opposite is a floor-to-ceiling window composed of dusty little rectangular panes. The light that filters in through them is tinged yellow and Maya can see little motes of dust wafting through their rays. There's something covered in a sheet on the desk. She can taste the booze and blood on the air.

She glances around the room, her eyes finally falling on Vladimir. He's seated in a rolling desk chair by one of the filing cabinets, a bottle of Stolichnaya in his lap and a glass discarded at his feet, and he looks shockingly like he's been crying. He looks up at her with half-lidded eyes, the deep blue of his irises almost glazed over.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks.

He looks at her again and speaks, but he's contorting his mouth too much and the words are lost on her. She gives a sigh and clears off part of the couch for her to take a seat.

"Please tell me Tolya's doing something productive that would keep him from answering his texts," she tells him. "I have something rather important to talk to him about."

"You can't speak to him."

Maya blinks at him, narrowing her eyes, "You wanna repeat that for me? I think I may have misread something, because I know you didn't just say I can't speak to him."

"You can't," he repeats, but there's no irritation in his expression, just…resignation.

Maya's eyes flick to the sheet on the desk, finally mentally putting together the distinct shape beneath. It's so clear, all the little pieces falling into place like snowflakes on a street, but she doesn't want to think about it. She could be wrong. She has to be.

"Vladimir, who's body is under that sheet?"

She says it slowly, the words feeling heavier on her tongue than usual. Vladimir waves his hand half-heartedly, an obvious sign for her to see for herself, and takes a long swig from the bottle. The room seems a little longer than before as she walks towards the table.

She feels like a little child again, walked into the hospital's morgue by a nurse with a watery smile to see her dead father on the cold steel surface. Her fingers close around the edges of the sheet, the cloth rough and papery to the touch, and she hesitates only a second before pulling it off.

There's a body beneath the sheet, it's neck a bloody mess of broken bone and severed muscle. Thick-soled work boots, blue jeans, a dark blue tee, and a zip-up jacket. Such generic image, it could have been anyone, but Maya doesn't need his face to recognize the corpse.

The sheet slips from her grip, pooling at her feet in a rumpled pile. She stares down at Anatoly's corpse as though it might disappear.

 _Come to Moscow with me._

It feels like a sick joke, just a ruse by the brothers to see how she might react, like the real Anatoly will walk through the door and they'll laugh about the lunacy of it all over a couple bottles of whiskey and vodka.

 _For me,_ kotik _. Please._

But the body is too familiar. She knows the slope of his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his hips, the crooked fingers.

 _I don't want to leave without you_.

It's wrong. All of it is wrong. He lived through poverty in Moscow, lived through two years in Siberia, through being smuggled into the country and starting again at the bottom and clawing his way back up. He's stronger than this.

 _Shut your eyes, Maya._

Maya jumps as a she feels something brush lightly across her cheek. Vladimir is standing beside her, looking at her with a mix of grief and surprise, before he glances down at his wet fingers. She hadn't realized she was crying. When did she start crying?

"You really did love him," Vladimir says and, for once, there's no sneer on his face.

"You really have to ask me that?" she snaps.

He offers his bottle, a wordless peace offering, and she takes it slowly. She doesn't even taste it as she takes a gulp. Death is nothing new. She's seen the dead hundreds of times. Why is it that this should be any different?

She shouldn't feel this way.

"I want a name."

She watches as Vladimir shifts on his feet, confusion in his eyes as she shoves the bottle back into his arms. There's a minute when he seems to realize what she's asking and he shakes his head.

"They are searching for the man who did this."

She clenches her fists, frustrated by the moronic men trying to shield her from what's going on. Why are they so hell-bent to keep her in the dark? She knows more about their world than they do, knows how to take care of herself better than they ever will, knows how the game is played. She's had enough.

"I didn't ask you if you had men searching," she very nearly snarls. "I asked for the name of the bastard who did this."

Vladimir hesitates before pulling something wadded up from his jacket. He tosses it to her, the fabric unraveling a bit as he does, and she snatches it out of the air with more force than necessary. She wastes no time in pulling it taut between her hands. A hysterical laugh bubbles up from her throat, causing him to take step back, a worried flash in his eyes.

It's a black mask.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_**Okay, so I'm fudging the location details quite a bit in this chapter. I've been trying to keep them vague because, along with that being the general case in the show, a lot of the scenery shown in the show doesn't exist in modern day Hell's Kitchen. New York readers, forgive me. I hope you enjoy, regardless.**_

* * *

What does she know about Black Mask? What does she know about Black Mask? What does she know about Black Mask?

It ran around her head in a loop, quashing every other thought. The answer: not fucking much. Fisk had been very careful to keep her out of that particular loop, as had the Ranskahovs and Nobu's men, but she had heard rumors. It's impossible not to hear the whispers in the shadows. They travel faster there than in the light.

She knows he's specifically going after the Russians, although he's given Turk and even a few minor criminals a little trouble. She knows he runs around in impractical black clothing. He's a skilled martial artist. He can apparently hear well enough to hear someone's heartbeat. He doesn't seem to kill. And she's guessed he knows these streets the same way she does, was raised in their filth just like her, given that he knows how to disappear quickly after.

Those are her two advantages. Those who don't kill will never be able to keep her down, she's too stubborn for that. And she'll be able to keep up with him on this playing field. Hell's Kitchen is hers as much as his, if not more.

She keeps replaying these thoughts in her head, keeping herself on autopilot. Anything to keep from thinking of Anatoly's body on the desk. Anything to keep from thinking about how his mangled throat doesn't suggest decapitation - she knows, she's seen those wounds before. To keep from thinking about the blood soaked heavily into his shirt. Keep from thinking about the chunks of what suspiciously looked like brain matter. About how that would have required extreme pressure on his head. How he would have been alive at the time. How much pain he-

NO.

What does she know about Black Mask? Not much, but enough.

She isn't even entirely certain where the man will be. His methods are unorthodox, his pattern inexistent, his intentions elusive. It is clear, however, that he'll be after Vladimir next. He's had a particular interest in them from the beginning, most likely due to how accessible the Russians are compared to the rest of Fisk's empire. Vladimir has only seven taxis out with Gao's runners tonight. That much he was comfortable with telling her just before she had left. Seven taxis, two men per each runner, and the rest were out looking for the Black Mask in groups of four.

Idiot.

It would be easier to follow the men in the taxis, easier to corner them, overpower them, and force answers from them. That would be her move, were she in the Mask's shoes. Gao's runners wouldn't talk - they never do for some godforsaken reason. Quite frankly, it scared the shit out of Maya. But the Russians didn't have the unwavering faith of Gao's people. Both were so damnably predictable.

So she had paid Turk off to put his own network out. Guns and information, that is Turk's business, but Maya won't trust his guns with his own life, much less hers. With the right price, his information is more valuable than anything in the world. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut tight. That doesn't cost a thing. She knows he's too afraid of her and what she would do to him if he told Fisk of what she is doing. Sometimes fear can be a more powerful motivator than money.

She eyes the surrounding buildings, never letting the taxi far below grow too far out of her sight. Turk will text her if something happens with the other six. It's surprisingly difficult to keep her phone on her in her body armor. She makes a mental note to take the suit into Potter soon, have him sew in some pockets. Nothing seems to have any goddamn pockets anymore.

The two men get out, opening the car door just long enough to yank the duffel bag from the runner's lap, and make their way into a dilapidated building. They're postures are stiff, shoulders held rigid, and she can tell they're afraid. She wonders idly what their frightened heartbeats must sound like. She won't be able to hear it when she kills the Black Mask, but she has other sensations to enjoy. The warmth of his blood, the dilation of his pupils, the stuttering rhythm of his ragged breaths, the feeling of his slowing pulse.

Her lips curl behind the mask into something between a snarl and a grin. How will she kill him? Slowly, of course. That much is a given. Part of her wants to simply watch him, to find his identity, to understand every facet of his life, and then to take away the one he loves. Another part of her wants to claw open his ribs, to tear apart the flesh and bone until she can hold his heart in her hand and crush it. Both are paths that Fisk would encourage were her target anyone else. He's always been very disapproving of the restraint she shows when killing, cultivating in her the idea that she should give in to her anger after she carries out her plan.

Passion and prudence. They are the backbone of his teachings, each equally important in their own time.

A vibration through her ankle pulls her out of her thoughts and she digs her phone out of her boot. Turk's alias pops up on the screen as she unlocks it, one string of text in her messages.

 **430 W 45th.**

He's so close to her, and the coincidence of it all makes her laugh despite herself. She's on her feet in seconds, running through air conditioner units and water tanks, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Once or twice she just barely makes the jump and slams into the walls or fire escapes with enough force to rattle her teeth, her fingers clenched around any handhold she finds so she can drag herself back up and continue on.

The lights below are a backdrop on her attention, casting twisting shadows across the blur of buildings around her. She feels the adrenaline shooting through her veins, giving her the high she's always loved. It has been too long since she's gone through the city like this. Then again, the last time she had, she wasn't so prepared to kill. She had done so before, but done so reluctantly. This is only the second time she has so willingly given in to bloodlust.

She skids to a halt at a building's edge, looking down at the alleyway. The flashing red and white of police sirens pull into the place, illuminating the place perfectly. There's a taxi before the two police cars, the driver's side passenger door is open and blood-splattered, a body slumped forward within it. There's another body unconscious on the opposite side. The third is being approached by cops with their guns raised. It's the fourth that catches her eye.

He's up the fire escape, pressed firmly against the wall, his black clothing allowing him to almost entirely blend into the shadows. But Maya can make out the pale outline of his jaw in the flashing lights. He looks almost ghostly in them.

 _So this is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen_ , she thinks.

His face snaps up to her in that second and, though she can't see his eyes through the black mask, she feels as though he's looking right at her. She takes several steps back, not taking her eyes off him. He stands at the same time she breaks out into a run. It's only when she leaping through the air between the buildings that she loses sight of him, more focused on clearing the distance.

She grits her teeth as the landing jars her, but her eyes flash up towards the Black Mask, narrowing as he takes off up the metal stairs. Pulling a few stiletto knives from her boot, she tears up the stairs after him. She watches him carefully as she chases him over the buildings and apartment complexes, watches how his body moves, catalogues every detail she can take in.

He's been trained well, every muscle that moves beneath the thin cloth he wears speaking of discipline and well-worn memory. But he doesn't carry any weaponry. _Poor bastard…_

She throws one of the knives, catching him low on his left calf. She simultaneously curses herself for missing his ankle and relishes the sight of it sinking deep into the muscle as he stumbles. The time gives her time to come upon him. He turns to face her, ripping the knife from his leg with a painful twist of his lips, and she slips into her usual routine.

Dodge.

The shift in movement in his arm and wrist give him away, the knife flying just over the surface of her mask as she ducks beneath it. His feet shoot out, twist of his hips and feet, and she jumps easily. He's on his feet. She watches his every move, twisting out of the way of every blow, and mentally compiles them. That's what she does. She watches, she deciphers the complex language between muscle and movement, and then she applies it. Her opponents must face their own Echo.

Determine.

In minutes, she understands a fraction of the man fighting her. He is in pain. He has been in pain for a very long time, his only solace the discipline that came with his studies. But there's something in him that he's holding back. There's a rage in him, a violence which he barely controls. And it terrifies him.

Deflect.

She flips backwards, twisting her torso painfully to bring her foot up across his jaw, and is rewarded with the feel of teeth clacking together. He stumbles back as she sticks the landing, turning to look at him with a perplexed tilt of her head.

Was this really the man who was giving everyone so much trouble?

And then he's speaking, his full lips forming around the words clearly and carefully, "Who are you?"

She simply rolls her shoulders, choosing not to speak aloud. Echoes, after all, do not have their own voices.

"Who sent you?"

 _You did_ , she thinks as she rushes forward. She flows into the movements he's displayed, taking on his posture and gait with ease, and slams her fist into his side. Her heartbeat pounds through her chest, matching the reverberations of the ribs beneath her knuckles. He's falling into the same pattern she is, and she's impressed.

She throws his own actions back at him, but he seems to anticipate them just as easily. A thrill spikes up her spine as he lands a blow at her hip, making the bone scrape painfully in its socket, and she grins despite herself. They are mirrors of each other. Two lithe figures, dressed all in black, dancing to a tune that could only be felt in echoing footsteps and pulses.

There's something exciting about it, mixing unpleasantly with the grief from Anatoly's death and the hatred for this man who caused it. Suddenly the pleasure turns sour. She doesn't want to admire the Black Mask, she wants to feel his suffering. Shifting out of his mentality, just enough to keep him on edge while allowing for her own actions to slip in, she redoubles her effort. Her face twists in rage as she lashes out at him, just barely evading his blows as she lands her own.

He's wearing down. She can see it in the shaky rise and fall of his shoulders, in the blood that's dried down the side of his cheek and matted his mask down, in the slowing of his actions. It allows her an opening and she takes it without hesitation.

She should have paid better attention. He bends forward, grabbing her as she flies into him, and shoves her further. His force and her momentum push her too far, her manic grin falling immediately, and her fingers miss the edge of the building as she tumbles over the side. She hits the metal grating of the a fire escape hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

It gives an uncomfortable shudder as it breaks from the rusting bars and nails keeping it attached to the wall, and she manages to get to her feet just as its falling. She leaps forward, the feeling of falling just a second before, and nearly breaks her fingers grabbing the drainpipe.

When she clambers back to the rooftop, the Black Mask is gone. She kneels on the concrete, looking at the empty space where he had once stood, and screams in rage.

It's another ten minutes before she finally limps off and towards her apartment, knowing in her heart that they'll meet again. She'll make sure of it.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_**TW: Rape mention**_

* * *

The living room is a hellacious mess. A couple of side tables have been upended, their contents joining the shards of glass and pieces of her body armor that litter the floor like bits of confetti. She's stripped down to the black tank top and exercise pants she wears underneath the armor. There are blood splatters across the light beige 's also blood on the ivory keys of her piano. It drips down her fingertips from the gashes on her knuckles, crimson blending into copper blending into white. It's a pretty contrast.

With every note she plays, she leaves sticky fingerprints across the keys. She's composing again. She hasn't composed anything in a very long time, back in the days she doesn't like to remember. But copious amounts of alcohol, bitterness, and grief tends to make for good inspiration. There's something cathartic about it, regardless.

She let herself get too cocky during her fight with Black Mask, had overestimated her capabilities, had underestimated his, and had let her emotions get the best of her. She had wounded her pride as a result. That isn't, of course, to say that she has no other wounds from the fight even despite the padding in her suit. Her skin is speckled with mottled purple bruises and she can feel her fractured ribs with every breath she takes. Her face is untouched, the result she had wanted when she had commissioned it from Potter, but it's no consolation this time.

She doesn't want to think - thinking allows everything she doesn't want to remember to creep back into her head, but she can't seem to stop herself. It's why she's playing, keeping the notes carefully in her head so she can write them down later. It would do no good to smear her blank sheet music in blood. She focuses on how each note feels, honing in on each different length and thrum of their vibrations, and how they meld together.

But then there's a harsh reverberation through the floor that throws her for a loop, the slamming of the front door. She doesn't stop playing, but she glances in the general direction of the front hall, catching sight of a very disgruntled Wesley stomping into the place. She holds up a hand for just a second, a wordless warning to be quiet for a minute. She shouldn't have bothered. He doesn't keep from speaking, he never seems to stop speaking. Why does he have to talk so goddamn much?

He walks around to the other side of the piano, his lips curled back in disgust as he looks about the chaos, and he waves a hand at her so she'll look up. She doesn't stop playing, but her mouth turns down in frustration as she meets his gaze. Why should he have the right to interrupt her when she doesn't want to think? He always makes her think, it's something in the way he speaks to her. She doesn't want that right now.

"What happened here?"

He doesn't curse, another thing he never seems to do, but she can see the stern edge in his pale eyes. So damned pale, they make him look so cold. Sometimes, when he peers down at her through his horn-rimmed glasses, he almost reminds her of the teachers in that horrid school. She doesn't have the patience to deal with his aloofness. She wants him to smile that little smile he only lets her see. It's one of the only time she feels like someone is really seeing her, all of her darkness and all of her light. The only other person to make her feel like that is -

NO. She doesn't want to think about that right now. She doesn't want to think at all.

"You're bleeding on," he glances around again before saying, "everything."

When she doesn't answer, his eyes narrow in worry, "Miss Lopez?"

Why does he have to be so professional? She stops playing with an unnecessary slam of her fingers against the keys. He winces, and even she can feel the chords dragging out a prolonged protest, but says nothing to her.

"How long have we known each other, Wesley?" she asks, but moves on before he can answer. "Wesley. I don't even know if that's your name or your surname. You've never told me, never told anyone. Why so distant? I understand it's an occupational hazard, but damn...would it kill you to use a little familiarity?"

He's unmoving for a few seconds, making sure she's not going to speak up again, before asking, "Where's the first aid kit?"

She shrugs, "For what?"

 _You should take better care of your hands_ , he signs as he steps closer. _It would be a shame if you couldn't play._

"The fuck does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

She stops short at that, watching him with her jaw clamped shut, knowing that she'll start crying if she tries to say anything. In her silence, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the edge of the piano, pulling off his tie in the next second. He's walking towards her, reaching out to her blood-stained fingers with his free hand. She watches as he delicately turns them over to inspect the damage before wrapping his navy tie around the knuckles of her right hand. The silk is soft and surprisingly warm against her skin. She never realized how cold she is until now.

"You'll ruin your tie," she says numbly.

He shrugs, grabbing his jacket and draping it over her shoulders, "It's just a tie. Besides, it would be a shame if you couldn't play anymore."

He's so close that she can see the smudges on his glasses. She wonders how he can see through them in the state that they're in. There are also silver flecks in his eyes, making them look a little less frigid. It's the first time she's ever seen him look entirely relaxed, his composure stripped away entirely. It almost seems surreal, seeing the stiffness vanish from his shoulders, his shirt rumpled and most of his suit gone. He looks so much younger this way.

"Where's the first aid kit, Maya?"

It's the first time he's called her by her name and she thinks it looks a little odd on his lips. Like it doesn't quite belong yet, but it could. She nods towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms, unable to seem to do anything else at that moment.

"Hall closet, first shelf under the towels," she says.

He leaves her then and the tie around her hand loosens without him holding it in place. She looks down at the mess that is the living room, really looks at it since she first stumbled in and broke down, and feels worse at the sight of it. She shouldn't be a wreck over something so menial. People die every day, it's no reason for her to react so pathetically.

Even as she thinks it, she knows she's lying to herself. She should be grieving. She should be breaking down and crying and thinking of all the things that could have been, but she just feels numb now. Not as though she can't feel the pain of it all, it still aches in the way that a slammed door still echoes through a wall even after minutes have passed, but as though someone has opened up her chest and carved her out. She feels empty, only the reverberations of old pains, long since buried but unearthed by Anatoly's death, echoing through the cavern of her ribcage.

She jumps at the soft touch of Wesley brushing his hand against her shoulder, letting her know he's returned. He sits down in front of her on the bench, placing the kit between them, and rummages through it for gauze and antiseptic wipes. His frown draws even deeper when he unravels his tie to reveal bits of glass embedded in her skin.

He's so close that she can feel his warm breath against her knuckles. Another few seconds are spent searching for a set of tweezers within the kit, his brows knit together in a worried line, and he brought her right hand close to his eyes. The way he picks out the glass shards is meticulous, his hands not shaking in the slightest.

"You should have been a surgeon," she tells him, and she can feel the faint hum of her own voice in her throat.

He angles his head so she can see his lips, "I studied to be one for a very long time."

The solemn expression on his face catches her by surprise, much like the honesty in his words, and she wonders why he's being so forthright with her this time. A part of her wants to take this moment with grace, to accept the simple confession as a fluke. A stronger part of her wants to push for more. She listens to it.

"So what made you get into this life?" she asks. "What was so tempting about this world that made you give up the luxury of medical professions to be a PA?"

He hesitates, examining her right hand one last time before setting it down in her lap and reaching for the left, "I realized I didn't actually want it - that it was just something I was doing for my family. So I changed career paths."

She gave a hum of interest, watching as he continued to carefully pick the glass away. There was something hypnotic about the motions. His fingers were slender, but not quite dainty, and their smooth skin and manicured nails spoke of a relatively easy life. He stopped suddenly, the lack of motion drawing her attention to his face once more.

"You're not going to ask how I got into this life?"

She offers him a derisive snort in response, a gesture that causes the slightest disgusted curl in his lips, and says, "It's always the same, something ugly has to happen for people to end up like us. I don't really care to know."

There's an unreadable expression on his face before he returns to his task of picking the remaining shards from her knuckles. When he doesn't say anything, she cracks a somewhat manic grin.

"Besides, it lends a certain air of mystery to you."

It's his turn to give something like a scoff, "How much have you had to drink?"

She doesn't answer him. Her humor has left her just as swiftly as it arrived, and she somehow feels worse. A small voice in her head whispers mockingly, _must have never really cared to be laughing so soon_. It makes her want to tear something apart. Again.

Wesley looks up when he's done, a hand reaching for the antiseptic wipes, "What about you?"

She doesn't wince when it touches the cuts, "What about me?"

There's a look on his face that clearly says, _don't be dense_ , but she ignores it and waits for him to continue, "I know my employer doesn't like to ask for your services unless it's unavoidable, which means that he likely didn't approve of your choice in career. So how did you get here?"

When's she quiet, he adds, "Unless, of course, you don't want to discuss-"

"I was raped."

His lips falter in their movements, he even stops wrapping bandages around her hand, and she continues anyway, "He was the brother of one of my friends and a shy deaf girl with little speaking ability must have seemed like an easy target."

"How did…Fisk…react?"

"For the longest time, he didn't know, but he figured it out fairly quickly. He put me in several martial arts classes after that."

"And the boy?"

She waits until he's looking straight at her to answer, "I killed him."

He barely bats an eye at the confession, looking up into her eyes just long enough for her to see the acceptance in his eyes before he cinches the last bandage into place.

"That doesn't surprise you."

Wesley peers at her, his fingertips tracing random patterns over her bandages, and shakes his head, "Why would I be? I would expect nothing less of you."

She doesn't answer, choosing to focus her gaze on the bloodied keys than on his pale eyes. There's movement out of the corner of her eyes, but she doesn't pay it any mind, not until his fingers are touching the underside of her jaw. He tilts her face back to his and she allows him to.

"I heard about Anatoly Ranskahov."

She wants to flinch at the look of his name, even if it is on Wesley's lips, for once untouched by his usual disdain. She doesn't.

"Did you go after the man in the black mask?"

"Yes."

There's a faint hint of astonishment in his eyes, but he says nothing in response. They both know that he'll have to report her whereabouts to Fisk, just as she knew the second he had come barreling in that Fisk had sent him to look for her because she had been ignoring his calls, but she doesn't care. Let him reprimand her for being careless. It was worth it.

 _Something else would be worth it, too_ , a voice says in her head. A part of her wants to deny it, pushing the idea that it's too soon, that it would be disrespectful and that she'll regret it. The rest of her is just drunk enough to not give a fuck.

She reaches out towards Wesley, running her fingertips lazily over the fabric of it. It's silk. She almost wants to scoff at the ridiculous fabric, it's so very much like him to pick that specific fabric, but she doesn't want to spoil what's going to happen. Without any preamble, she grips the lapels of his shirt tightly and tugs him forward.

His lips are on hers all of a millisecond before he has his hands around her wrists. He pushes her back, looking frustrated and taken aback all in one. But his money-green eyes are barely visible around his widened pupils and he licks his lips hesitantly.

"This isn't a good idea," he says.

"Who fucking cares."

She's kissing him again. And, after a second's hesitation, he's pressing closer towards her. Maya smirks at the implications, knowing now that Wesley has less self-control than she imagined.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**_God, it's been forever since I've written, and it's mostly because I haven't had the drive recently. But I love Maya and I love her role in this universe too much to abandon her. So I hope you enjoy this very late chapter. I'm not giving up on this story so easily._**

* * *

They crash into the door to Maya's bedroom with all the decorum of a couple of horny teenagers. Her legs are immediately wrapped around Wesley's slim waist, holding her up regardless of his hands on her thighs. His well-manicured nails dig into her flimsy black pants with a sort of need she hadn't realized he harbored. She rakes her fingers through his hair in response, relishing how soft the locks feel, tousling what little gel is holding the styling in place.

His kisses are an eclectic mix of emotions. Hunger, detachment, frenzy, restraint, intent, and experience flood her mouth as she slips her tongue past his lips. One of her hands is pressed against the door as she scrabbles for the doorknob while she tugs his hair hard. He stumbles slightly as the door swings open, catching himself on the frame before moving towards the bed, hands back on her ass in a quickness.

There's a delicious need in his green eyes that threatens to swallow her whole if only for the night. He tosses her onto the bed, dragging a half-skeptical laugh from her lips, and she gives him a soft kick when he tries to lean down into her. He understands her demands without a word. There's a deftness in the way that he unbuttons and shrugs off his jacket that makes Maya bite her lip. He practically rips off his tie, his shirt joining the rest of his ensemble on the floor a second later.

She undresses quickly, sitting up on the bed to get a better view of Wesley. He's certainly not muscular, not that she expected otherwise, but there are lovely soft curves of chubbiness to accentuate his surprisingly slender frame. She situates herself on the bed and trails her fingers down between her legs as he does away with his watch, belt, shoes, socks, and slacks. His fingers curl around her wrist, stopping her from moving.

"Don't touch yourself."

He crawls onto the bed, his shoulders pressing her legs apart.

She scoffs at him, "I don't have sex without foreplay, Wesley."

A smirk plays across his lips, almost taunting, and he says something that surprises her.

"James," he says carefully. "Call me James."

He buries his face between her legs before she can question it. She gasps as his tongue slides across her entrance, just a fleeting touch as he trailed upwards towards her clit. His arms slipped beneath her bent knees and his nails raked across her hips. Maya tried not to buck too much into his face, leaning back her head and moaning as he teased and tasted. He's better than she had anticipated.

She doesn't bother holding back from nearly tugging his hair from his scalp. A groan reverberates against and through her as he speeds up. She peers down at him, catching his eyes as he watches her reactions to every swipe of his tongue. _He's definitely had more than a few lovers,_ she thinks distantly, _at least more than a few women_.

He's working a up a lovely tension as he sets her nerves on high alert. Her hips buck into his mouth sharply, and Maya has to force herself back down onto the mattress. His fingers tap into her thigh thrice, an attempt to get her attention, and she looks back down at him as he pulls up an inch. It takes her a minute to process what he's saying.

"You don't have to hold back. Move as much as you need."

He's back down in the next second, tasting her with twice the fervor now. Taking his words to heart, Maya doesn't bother trying to restrain herself, squirming and jerking beneath him as moans fall from her lips in quicker succession.

Her grip tightens on his shoulder at a particular shift of his tongue and she says, "That!"

Wesley repeats the motion, causing her to nod desperately, feeling herself get closer as he speeds up. Her toes are curling and she can't keep her eyes open while he repeats the action again and again until she feels herself slipping over the edge. He continues as she comes with a cry.

Maya's eyes are barely open as he finally pulls away, still shivering with the aftershocks. His lips and chin glisten with her cum and yet he still looks composed as he slides his glasses down his nose, folds them, and sets them down on the nightstand.

"Do you want me to continue?" he asks when he turns back to her.

In answer, Maya sits up and kisses him, tasting herself on his lips. She drags him down on top of him, his cock pressing against her as he follows willingly. He pulls back only to ask if she has condoms. The minute he's pulled one from the drawer and slipped it on, he's back on top of her, kissing her breasts, her throat, her collarbones. His fingers press against her, sliding barely inside her with ease. She bites him hard on the shoulder.

"James," she half-sighs, half-snaps.

It's enough for him to get the idea. He pulls his hand away and buries himself deep inside of her.

* * *

Wakefulness comes to Maya at a leisurely pace. There are fleeting cobwebs of a half-fuzzy dream in her mind - the feel of teeth and nails tearing into skin, of hair being pulled, of searching fingertips, and of hips thrusting into hers. It's weirdly tangible, where she can remember it, of course. She hasn't had a sex dream like that in years.

There's a heavy pounding in her head as she leaves sleep further behind and her mouth tastes disgustingly metallic. She doesn't bother opening her eyes. No point in having the sunlight assault her just yet. Instead, she turns over onto her right side, throwing her arm and leg across the other side of the bed. And right onto another person.

Maya's eyes immediately snap open, ignoring the sunlight streaming heavily into the room. Beside her, legs tangled in the blanket and mostly uncovered, is a familiar dark-haired man. It doesn't take more than a second to realize what she had initially dismissed as a dream was actually what happened. She almost reels back at the sight of Wesley.

His eyes flutter open at the movement, his face losing the vulnerable peacefulness it had harbored in his sleep. There's just a hint of sincerity in his expression as he looks over at her.

"Good morning," he says - or so Maya guesses.

She has to bite back an exasperated groan. Although she's not normally one for regrets, Maya feels a pang of guilt knowing she's slept with Wesley so soon after Anatoly's death. She grits her teeth at that, forcing her thoughts away from the bitter taste of betrayal. Anatoly is dead and, in her life, there is no point in lingering over the dead.

 _You're still here_ , she signs.

It seems like an easy conversational path to follow, given what has happened. Maya hadn't expected Wesley to stick around for the morning.

 _I don't sneak out after sex_ , he signs back, his lips pressed into an irritated line. _That would be rude and immature._

She shrugs, hoping that it conveys enough that he understands it wasn't a question of either. Maya stretches as she sits up and turns to look him over again. He doesn't have the well-toned warrior physique she's used to, that much she hadn't been mistaken about in the night, but the change was nice.

 _So what now?_

He looks perplexed by her question, _What do you mean?_

She exhales through her nose in what she hopes is a scathing huff, _Do you want to keep doing this?_

 _Having sex?_

There's a slightly confused twist to Wesley's features as he signs this, like it wasn't something he expected her to ask. He continues signing after.

 _I wouldn't be averse to it._

"That's not an answer, Wesley."

He looks up at her, halfway through pulling up his dress slacks, and frowns, "I asked you to call me James - when we're in private, at least."

"Then you should drop the 'Ms. Lopez' bit," she retorts. "James."

In all honesty, she doesn't know how to feel about his given name. It feels less suitable to him than Wesley. Perhaps it fits him when he's playing attaché for Fisk among the more legitimate venues of their business, the name of an old money bachelor who's in line for inheriting a company, but not for the machiavellian right-hand-man she'd seen him to be. He had too much of the city's mud staining his hands to fit an elegant name like James.

Regardless, there's something akin to amusement in his money green eyes when she says it, "It sounds nice in your voice."

His words take her by surprise, and she sits on the bed staring at him in disbelief as he casually puts his clothes back on. As he tightens his tie around his neck, he looks up at her again.

"I'll endeavor to be less formal around you," he says with a smirk, "Maya."

He gives his jacket a slight tug, straightening out the few wrinkles it had collected during its time on the floor. Despite having been caught up in a one night stand, and now having to deal with the walk of shame, he seemed presentable. It was a bit infuriating.

"Should I work out a schedule in which we can meet with each other on a regular basis?"

Maya slips off the bed, goaded by his professionalism even in their potential sex life, and she grabs his tie hard enough to pull it from his jacket and his face the half a foot difference until they're eye-to-eye. She can see him swallow at the sudden change in mood.

"There will be no schedules, James," she says. "You come to see me whenever you feel like it and I'll do the same. I'm not a business associate, I'm the woman you're sleeping with, so don't treat me like one of Fisk's partners."

He nods as much as he can in his position, "As you wish."

She gives his tie a bit of slack, tucking it back into his jacket before running her hands over the black fabric of his jacket, "Now that we've established that, what do you usually do the morning after?"

He looks much more ease now, though his pupils are wider than usual. She gets a rush of excitement as she realizes he likes her being threatening. Likes her being in control. She bites back the instinct to lick her lips, instead choosing to walk past him and towards her closet, turning around just as she reaches the doorway.

 _I usually offer to get a cup of coffee_ , he signs, _or take them to breakfast._

That brings a smile to Maya's face. Of course he wouldn't be so crass as to simply dismiss himself. He's too concerned with maintaining the air of a gentleman, even one who wants nothing romantic out of his relationships, to simply leave without some form of silent thanks. It's charmingly mundane for a man she knows has blood on his hands.

She turns away from him, walking past rows of clothes until she finds what she wants. It doesn't take long for her to slip into a flowing white blouse with wide french cuffs and high-waisted black slacks. It takes her a solid minute to ponder over shoes, deciding on black stilettos over flats or pumps, and they dangle from her hand as she walks back to his side.

"Both sound lovely," she tells him, pulling on her heels. "I'll pay."

"I'll pay," he corrects her, holding out his hand in a needless gesture for balance.

She shrugs, a sly smile tugging at her lips. This promises to be entertaining, at the very least.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**I don't know why I'm writing this to you. You can't read it, so what's the point? Sentiment? You and I both know there's no room for that kind of sentiment. But I can't seem to keep myself from following through with this idiocy.**

 **I slept with Wesley. I know you hated him and being with him definitely wasn't something you wanted, but I needed not to think. And he's easy to be casual with. That's what it is, really. Casual sex. He's aro, so I'm not expecting anything more. Not really sure I'd want more if he wasn't.**

 **I don't regret it. I'm going to keep fucking him, all goes well. He's surprisingly good, though I bet you'd hate to hear it. But I do feel like I should tell you. Not that it does you any good. Still, it's been said, I guess.**

 **I miss you, Tolya. Funny that, isn't it? Me missing anyone. Guess you were that fucking important. I'm sorry you didn't know that before. I love you.**

Maya hits send on the message, ignoring the rising feeling of embarrassment and disgust at the need to write it in the first place. Vladimir doesn't know where Anatoly's phone was - although it doesn't make much of a difference given that it was locked, probably in a ditch somewhere, and/or out of battery. No one will read it. No harm no foul.

It still doesn't stop her from feeling childish. She doesn't believe in ghosts or an afterlife. So what good are texts to a dead man? She turns off the screen, slipping her phone back into her pocket, and does her best to ignore what she's just done. It's not as though she's going to do it again, after all.

It's a strange feeling to have the night free for once. She feels as though she's been busy for the past few weeks. Between doing odd jobs for Fisk, keeping up with her social life, and hunting Black Mask, she hasn't had much time for frivolity.

She takes another of sip of cognac before setting the snifter down on the edge of the piano. It's been so long since she last composed, too long. The night she practically destroyed her apartment doesn't really count, she thinks, even though there's a faint stain on the keys that the cleaners couldn't get rid of.

That doesn't stop her from replaying the notes she had drawn out in her misery. She knows what all of the keys sound like in theory, and the piece she had spontaneously created isn't half bad. It just needs some polishing. She works more with it, feeling the vibrations which vary with each improvisation she throws in.

What does she want this piece to say? Should this piece be one of sorrow, like it was that night? Or a celebration of her time with Anatoly? The more she plays with it, the more she's uncertain. Maya stops, fingers hitting the keys harder than she would if she was playing, and takes a longer draw of her cognac.

She plays it from the beginning, trying to work it into something more free. Composing always comes easier to her the less she thinks about it. When she plays instinctually, paying more attention to what keys she's playing than which ones she should, she lets the feel lead her to where it needs to be. It's very similar to what she does when learning to fight in new forms.

She laughs to herself at how fitting it seems to her. Incapable of acting properly if she hyper-focuses on the future, incapable of acting at all if she dwells too deeply on the past. Only the present can allow her the simultaneous fluidity and rigidity she needs to function as a perfect unit. Control through spontaneity. No wonder her teachers in the Hand hated working with her.

 _You cannot rely on chaos alone_ , she remembers Azuma telling her many years ago. _Chaos requires order to exist. You must have a basis of order, a core of self-discipline. If not, you will die._

But beings of complete order couldn't change, couldn't evolve, couldn't keep up as the world left them behind. Azuma had died because of this. He wouldn't bend, couldn't, and so he broke under the strain. Maya isn't one to ignore the mistakes of others.

The reverberations of the notes feel pleasant, feel right, and she smiles as she realizes she has found what she had been looking for. It feels like a reflection. Pulling from the grief, but there's this lovely fade into reminiscence.

She's halfway through the next set when there's a sudden shake. It throws off her playing as the entire building gives a shudder, her glass slipping off the edge of the piano and shattering against the floor. She's on her feet in an instant, her hands gripping the sides of the piano too tightly, looking around in a slight panic.

The second quake comes just seconds after, shaking more than the first. It takes Maya a second to recognize the feeling as explosions, the second one being closer than the first had been. A third hits as she tries to stand. She leaves the piano, composition forgotten, and rushes to the floor to ceiling window. A fourth explosion goes off as she stumbles across the room and into the glass.

The city is on fire.

At least, pieces of the city is on fire. Twisting infernos, flames raging high above the buildings, dot the city's skyline not too far from her apartment. A couple blocks separated each fire, making them look almost like beacons in the night. Maya watches in horror as another street corner goes up in flames with a furious shake.

 _What is happening?_

She stands before the glass, the city illuminated in patches by the raging flames, trying to justify the madness. The longer she peers at the fires, the more she feels there's something she's missing. She squints at the different locations and quickly counts the blocks.

Leftmost had to be about 47th and 12th. Which would make the next one on 44th and 11th. Another just barely in sight at 42nd and 10th, give or take. The last is at 48th and 9th.

Her eyes widen as it dawns on her.

"Vladimir," she whispers, immediately turning on the balls of her feet.

She doesn't stop to grab her armor, instead throwing on her jacket and grabbing a scarf from the counter without stopping on her way out. Bypassing the elevator entirely, Maya takes the stairs three at a time. She wraps the scarf around her neck, practically into a chokehold, as she shoves through the door without a word to the concierge. The second it's tied securely, she pulls a section of it above her mouth and nose.

She's not particularly close to the areas of the explosions, but the smell of burning is enough to make her gag. It's a nauseating mix of chemicals, smoke, gasoline, and flesh. There are people running everywhere, pushing in the opposite direction as Maya shoves her way through them. She can already feel a layer of ash and grit coating her skin. Whatever else is floating in the air makes her eyes water.

Everything is still processing in her mind even as she shoves through the chaos directly for nearest site. The second the crowds allow, Maya breaks out into a full sprint. She puts together a mental list, quickly going through every acquaintance and colleague she's ever met or known the Ranskahovs to do business with, as she nears the rubble surrounding one of the compounds. Whoever was responsible had been familiar enough to know the location of every warehouse Vladimir and Anatoly used.

Which means there is a disturbing security leak. It means no one is safe. And Maya definitely isn't okay with that sort of implication. On top of having a concerning amount of knowledge about Fisk's empire's workings, the attack shows courage and defiance against Fisk that she hadn't thought existed in any of their compatriots.

The police are just arriving on the scene as she reaches 44th, dodging into the flickering shadows, finding a hard time hiding between the flames and the police lights. She half stumbles through the rubble, trying to make her way quickly through the broken cement and rebar without getting hurt. The heat is blistering and the ash burns her eyes as she sweeps through the mess.

There are a lot of dead bodies. All from Vladimir and Anatoly's men, from what she can tell. The smell of burning skin and hair is more cloying here, mixing with what she can only guess is the smell of heroin and plastic, and Maya has to stop herself from gagging.

A slight movement catches her eyes, the slightest glimpse of a bloody hand twitching from beneath a sizeable slab of concrete. She hops over the ruin as quick as she can. The man she finds isn't one she recognizes, though much of his face is obscured by cement and blood, but he is still somehow alive.

Maya kneels down to get a closer look at him, "Can you hear me?"

He barely stirs. She grabs him by the chin roughly, his eyes snapping open with a look of fear. The flash of emotion causes her to let go of him and she leans over further.

"Can you hear me?" she repeats.

He says something, likely in Russian by the way he moves his mouth, but he gives a nod.

"Where's Vladimir?"

Again, he opens his mouth and obviously says something in response, but Maya can't make anything from the shaking of his lips. They barely seem to move at all. It infuriates her, how she could be so close to what information she needs, but unable to tell what's being said because he's in too much pain to enunciate properly.

She gives an irritated snarl, digging her nails into the man's shoulders, "Is he here?"

He shakes his head. It's an answer, at least, and she presses forward.

"Do you know where he is?"

Perhaps she shouldn't be using present tense. The damage is extensive, and there are a lot of bodies in this wreckage alone, which doesn't bode well for Vladimir if was at one of the compounds at the time. But she refuses to let herself doubt that he may be alive. They had never had a particularly smooth relationship, but Maya feels to owes it to Anatoly to keep his brother alive.

For a third time, the man says something incomprehensible and Maya very nearly snaps his collarbone, "I can't understand what you're saying if you don't at least try to speak clearly. I'm not going to hurt him, but I need to know where he is. So, again, do you know where Vladimir is?"

It takes him a few more times, but she manages to catch the word 'twelve', and knows immediately that he means the compound at 47th and 12th. She breathes a sigh of relief that it's not the furthest one from where she is now. He reaches out weakly for her as she pulls back, but she ignores him. She doesn't have the time to help him and, even if she did, she wouldn't know where to start. Between the cops beginning to get out of their cars and not having the equipment to help him, Maya knows she doesn't have a choice.

His fingers scrabble across the rubble as he reaches out, but she turns away and heads towards 47th. The roads are clearer here, fewer pedestrians running for safety, and the cop cars don't seem to have reached this far yet.

Between the thick smoke and the heat, Maya's throat and lungs burn with the exertion. She's tired and tipsy and worried. She can't help but wonder if this is what Anatoly had to go through when he had been alive. Not the bombs, of course, but the constantly having to save him from dangers least expected.

She skids to a stop as she turns the corner, keeping as close to the shadows as she can. There are dozens of police, not concentrated around the crumbled building that had been the Ranskahovs' warehouse, but around the abandoned building across the street from it. There are a few throngs of people hanging around the fringes. She swears under her breath as she watches them, wondering how she's going to sneak past and into the building unseen.


End file.
